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PRESENTED BY 


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Harold N. Hillebrand 


PS 
2250 
.E99x 
1899 





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LONGFELLOW’S POEMS 


Cabinet Cdition 


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ne eCOME REE POR TIGA 
WORKS OF 
HENRY WADSWORTH 
LONGFELLOW 


Cabinet Cdition 





SOWA S58 
ee 
Ghe Rwersive Rregg; 


BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
Che Vivergide Press Cambridge 


ie Sa 


COPYRIGHT, 1841, 1843, 1846, 1847, 1849, 1851, 1855, 1858, 1863, 1865, 1866, 1867, 
1868, 1869, 1871, 1872, 1873, 1874, 1875, 1876, 1877, 1878, 1879, 1880, 1882, 1893, 
1886, 1891, 1894, 1896, 1Sg9, 1900, I90I1, 1902 AND 1908, BY HENRY 
WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW AND ERNEST W. LONGFELLOW 


COPYRIGHT, 1882, 1883, 1886 AND 1893, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO 


COPYRIGHT, 1903, 1906, 1908, 1910, I91I, 1913, 1914, 1915, I916, 1917, AND 192q, 
BY ERNEST W. LONGFELLOW 


COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY ALICE M. LONGFELLOW 


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 


PUBLISHERS’ NOTE 


S Tuts Cabinet edition of Longfellow’s Complete Poetical 
SS Works includes the trilogy of Christus and all the transla- 
_\tions, save Dante and those short translations not included by 
‘the poet in his latest collective edition. In the Cambridge 
- edition, it was deemed best to bring together in an Appen- 
~ dix the discarded work of the poet, for the convenience of the 
a student, but in this edition the poet’s own course is followed, 
“5 and the reader has before him the entire body of poetry 
authorized by the poet, together with the posthumous poems 
published by his representatives shortly after his death. The 
plates of this volume are new, and the opportunity has been 
taken to add line numbers in the case of the longer poems. 
\ Great care has been taken to present the complete poetical 
‘ works in a compact yet readable form. 


Autumn, 1899. 


4 
“ 


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As), ae appa’ Pr Het J wi WY ass sales ia 
‘i tg (pie: at ‘ai oe vil re 56 mre Pail} "it Siete 
wits . slavish iid ae ify hin we hea Apitw tit sy ik a ianiyied 
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ipa pa hue it nig wt “ih EP fas jhall yal a toy ‘ 
Oye 5M Ham Kes besawrt- ion, sibtaah Sy a a Mie: 


- 





PABUENOL CON TENTS 


PAGE PAGE 
VOICES OF THE NIGHT. THe SLAVE IN THE DISMAL 
PRELUDE Ce ne Wile de ow eri evsesnl SWAMP. . . uaceh ii ie.) aul 
Hymn ro tue Nicuot . ..° 2 THE SLAVE sINGING AT MuIp- 
re 3 NIGHT PSs: Pete. Vebihe ite eo 
ie cng caer nad THE  WITNESSES@is lems) linen 20 


THE REAPER AND THE Pyow- 


ices a eae THE QUADROON GIRL .. . 26 
Tue LIGHT OF ae Vein 74 THe WARNING. . - + - . 27 
pen a cian ie : THE SPANISH STUDENT . . 27 
T ELEAGUERED CITY Grip 
aes Mass For THE Dy- ‘THE BELFRY OF BRUGES 

ING YEARS a thea Webra. od AND OTHER POEMS. 

CARINEON te alsa cult ce » LONG 

EARLIER POEMS. THE BELFRY OF Pecos - 68 
AN APRIL DAY Me scl ueel «)) °S A GLEAM or SUNSHINE. . . 70 
AUTUMNour.T snsmine of Beko poo. THe ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD 70 
Woops IN WINTER .... .9 NUREMBERG s) 0 <u))e ie 0 eh cance 
Hymn oF THE MoRAVIAN Nuns THe NorMAN BARON... 1%3 

OF BETHLEHEM... . . 10 Rain InSUMMER . . . . - 74 
SunrisE ON THE Hitts. . . 11 TOrAGOHIL Denne RD 
Tue Sprrit oF PorTRry. .. Il THE OCCULTATION OF ayntns . 8 
BurIAL OF THE MINNISINK . 12 THE BRIDGE .. anes Paras) 
LP ENVOL Ate e aie, ost Lo To THE DRIVING etn «7 ee 80 

BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. eae Dis been Bt 
THE SKELETON INARMOR . . 14 AFTERNOON IN FepruarRy . 82 
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 15 To aN Oxp DanisH Sone- 
THe VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. . 17 BOOK tune 82 
ENDYMION. . mrELS WALTER VON DER Voou 
IT 1s NOT ALWAYS iia 5g ale WELD corrsbshe Steir ee ss nateioo 
Pie) RAINY DA Varese chive tem ee 019 Drinkinae Sona. ... . & 
Gop’ s-ACREMmroe en tt Men en LO THe OLtpD CLocK ON THE 
To THE RIvER CHARLES... 19 STARS SP Ren ey 85 
Buinp BARTIMEUS ... . 20 THE ARROW AND THE Sone. 86 
THE GOBLET oy LIFE .. . 20 SONNETS. 

MAID ENHOOD aceerciil elmer 2e te nieL Mezzo CAMMIN. ... . 86 
OXOMUSIOR Gms tedMien st ceurel te 22 Tue EventinG STAR .. . 86 
AUTUMN ee Melero! Ve Neh eee 
roEMS ON SLAVERY. Dawes, soccer: ean ane? 
To WiiuiAm E. CHANNING . 23 CURFEW?Hie vel jer ee et eu one Os, 
* THE SnAve’s DREAM. .. 23 
THE GooD PART, THAT SHALL EVANGELINE: A TALE OF 


irvinacra kines WAT ANL | 24 ACA DDIM in 3g Wet sibteeri nl of verve Co: 





Viii 





THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRE- 
SIDE. 


DEDICATION. « «© « e © 
By THE SEASIDE. 


THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP 
DEA WEED ikey fe. sce ls 
CHRYSAOR. . . 5 
THE SECRET OF THE Sh Pre 
TWILIGHT . } 
Sir HuMPHREY Ginsenired 
THE LIGHTHOUSE 
Tue Fire oF Drirt-Woop . 
By THE FIRESIDE, 
RESIGNATION’. € 4°73 55. 
THE BUILDERS ... 
SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN 
Hour-GuAss . .. 
THE OPEN WINDOW . 
Kine WITLAF’s Hithernd! 
Horn 5) ')% OU, Fa Be 5 
GASPAR Bucyaen Stulge pits. ve 
PEGASUS IN PouND. .. 
TEGNER’S DRAPA 


SONNET, ON Mrs. Kihtate’s 
READINGS FROM SHAKE- 


SPHARE Uy cet neler tle dade 
THE ‘SINGERS 51) ‘sod ede tse 
SusPIRIA . . . AC 
HymMN FOR MY Weectr? $s 
ORDINATION) Veulte tsi ie ive 


FHE SONG OF HIAWATHA. 


INTRODUCTION . . « « . 
I. THe Peace-PIPE ... 
II, THe Four Winps.. . 
III. HraAwATHA’s CHILDHOOD . 
IV. HiAwaTHA AND MupgE- 
(VE RBEWIS) s. aevye é 
WY. HIAWATHA’S Wigeniat 
VI. HiAwaTHA’s FRIENDS. . 
VII. HiawatuHa’s SaInine . 
VIII. HiaAwaTuHa’s FisHIne . 
IX. HIAWATHA AND THE 
PEARL-FEATHER. . . 
X. HrawaTHa’s Wooine. . 
XI. HiaAwaTHa’s WEDDING- 
BWAST oi .ctisr 5 
THe Son OF THE ‘Eyer: 
INGY STAR Ohi wy eis 
BuEssInc THE CORN- 
FIELDS . . hed 
XIV. PrerURE- WRitiNné { 


XII. 
XIII. 


134 


136 


. 137 


137 


. 183 


XVII. 


XVIII. 


XXII. 


TABLE OF CONTENTS © 


or 


XV. Hiawarna’s LAMENTA- 
ION 24s 1s) hoa telaletay LOD 
Pau-Puk-Krewis . . . 188 
THe HUNTING oF Pav 
PuxK-KEEWIsS eA? 
THE DEATH oF Kwasinp 197 .- 
THE GHuosts 4. “sn 2 99 
THE FAMINE. . Be eet 
THE WHITE MAN’s Sena! 204 
HIAWATHA’S DEPARTURE 207 


XVI. 


XIX. 
XX. 
XXI. 


THE COURTSHIP OF MILES 
STANDISH. 


I. Mines STanpisH .. . 211 
II. LovE AND FRIENDSHIP . 213 
III. THe Lover’s Errand . 215 


IV. JoHN ALDEN. «. 1 % . 218 
V. THE SAILING OF THE 
MAYFLOWER ; . : . 222 


VI. Prisciuna . S220 


VII. THE Marcy oF ‘pities 
STANDISH . 5 . 228 
VIII. Tue Sprnnine- Feith 2286 


IX. THe Weppina-Day . . 232 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 
FLIGHT THE First. 


Birnps oF PASsaAGE . . = . 235 
PROMETHEUS, OR THE POET’S 
FORETHOUGHT . . . 236 
EPIMETHEUS, OR THE Port’ 8 
AFTERTHOUGHT . 5 PRE 
THE LADDER OF ST. Augustine 238 


THE PHANTOM SHIP . :; . =; 239 
THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE 
PORTS) 2 2 4) WORE, Ry 238 
Havuntrep Houszs. . . 249 
IN THE CHURCHYARD AT Cae 
BRIDGE. . wv7Si 
THE EMPEROR’S Brie s- Hess . 242 
THE Two ANGELS. .. . « 243 
DAYLIGHT AND MoonniaHtT. . 243 
THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT 
NEWPORT) i i % « «© w . 244 
OLIVER BASSELIN. . . . » 246 
. Victor GALBRAITH .. . » 246 
My Losr. Youth . .. . « 24? 
THE ROPEWALK ,. « » 248 
THE GOLDEN MiLe-Sronti or, 249 
CATAWBA WINE. % 3 «© . 250 
SANTA FILOMENA . . + . . 251 
THE DIscOVERER OF THE NORTH 
CAPE. tiie (2c aie mesg eoe 


TABLE OF CONTENTS ix 


DAYBREAK .. . 
THE FIFTIETH Bich ay OF 
AGASSIZ 
CHILDREN ator « 
DANDABPHON Mt et aeciia, 
FLIGHT THE SECOND. 

THE CHILDREN’s Hour . 

TUN CRG AD Usivrs li smiaien iaureeie ue 
THE CUMBERLAND. . . . « 
SNOWSHDAKES: (ofs0 ccs fey | 6 
A Day oF SUNSHINE. .. « 
SoMETHING LEFT UNDONE 
WW HARINESS <0 ecine ORL ihe) be 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN. 


Part First. 
IP TeInACULabia ete e ste os 
THe LANDLORD’s TALE: PAuL 


REVERE’s RIDE.) . 3. 

SM RLCHIUAE . sts, Fe. ee js 
THe Strupent’s TALE: THE 
FAtcon oF SER FEDERIGO 

Interlude. . . ey we 


THe SPANISH Juw'd "TALE, 
THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN 
ERVIN Ve eee) sc ke nie as 

Interlude. . . 

THE SICILIAN’S Pale 
ROBERT OF SICILY . 
Interlude. . ° 
THE MusIcIAN’s Tne” 
Saga or Kina OLAF. 


ena 


THE 


I. THz CHALLENGE OF 
ATOR te jee. ' 
Il. Kine OLArF’s Rae: 
III. THora oF Rimon 
IY. QuEEN SIGRID THE 
_ HaAveuty 
V. THE SKERRY OF SHRIEKS 
VI. THE WRAITH OF ODIN 
VII. Iron-BEARD .... 
WEEE GuDRUN see os) 0S 
IX. THANGBRAND THE 
PETES T Mc Ace 
X. RAuD THE Grnoee : 
XI. BisHor SicurD oF SAL- 
TEN HIORD > . - 
XII. Kine Ouar’s CuHrist- 
SE Se Cie Pe 
XIII. THE Bum~pING ‘OF THE 


Lona SERPENT. 
XIV. Tue Crew ofr THE LONG 
SERPENT. . . 


. 253 


. 253 


25 
vs 
. 254 


254 


. 255 


256 
257 
257 
258 


. 258 


258 


259 


. 264 
. 266 


. 267 
- 272 


273 


. 274 


» 275 
. 279 


280 
280 


. 281 


. 282 


283 
285 
286 
287 


288 


. 289 
. 290. 
, 291 
292 


. 294 





XV. A LiTrLE Bird IN THE 
ATR ake cue Aa pA 


XVI. QuEEN THYRI AND THE: 
ANGELICA STALKS . 295 

XVII. Kina SvEND OF THE 
ForKED BrArRD . .-256 

XVIII. Kine Ouar AND EARL 
OIG VALI) dara eat mmr ook 

XIX. Kina OwarF’s WaArR- 
Horns . 298 
XX. EHINAR eee 299 

XXI. Kina Onar’s DEATH- 
Drink . 300 

XXII. Tot Nun oF Noa! 
ROS eb s Pole Aan OUU 
TPRGCTULMLE Sad veh. ast hey apres OOL 

THE THEOLOGIAN’sS TALE: Tor- 
QUEMADAG Suite 6 tet me OOS 
Interlude. . . . . 3807 

THE Porr’s TALE: Tun eee 
oF KILLINGWORTH. . . . 307 
TUG Citne Weetlebibeibieite, ve stole 

Part SECOND. 

PEIN tee se aise ace Late yoko 

THE Sicmian’s TALE: THE 
BRU (OMMATRE Pes ps er ys OLO 
Interlude . : Ai aoe We 

THe SPANISH Juw's s TALE: 
TEAM RAL Uegeye taguyen cele tel colic 
Interlude. . . richie sme ee PA] 

THE StTupENT’s TALE: THE 
CoBBLER OF HAGENAU . . 320) 
Interlude . : et soot 

THE MUSICIAN’S Tar : THE 
BALLAD OF CARMILHAN . . 324 
Interlude . Ms ekOLe 

THe Port's Taue: LApy 
WENTWORTH. 5 « » «.+3 329 
TnNserliuaene eos a eR See Se2 

THE THEOLOGIAN’s TALE: THE 
LEGEND BEAUTIFUL .. . 332 
Interlude . . 334 


THE STUDENT’s SECOND TALE: 
THE Baron oF St. CASTINE 335 


PUVGHES PR he NE he Ne Ue Nes OOD 
Part THIRD. 

(Prevwder a Velns . 340 

Tuer SPANISH JEW’S DAE Az 
BART: UW ist tie tombs icine OS 

Interlude. . oes 

THE PoktT’s rien: yates 
MAGNE Weliisitsliss nie) ela acore 

PECL TATTLE ICM IOLEOe PSs i ahs «| 


x TABLE OF CONTENTS 








THe STuDENT’s TALE: EMMA III. Towrr oF PROMETHEUS 
AND EGINHARD. .. . . 045 on Mount Caucasus . 388 
dntertude. To 4.) . 349 LV). MDHEVA TRY ws cucu eae OO 
THE THEOLOGIAN’S one Buz V. THE HousE oF EPIMETHEUS 390 
ABETH Wuatic “ic 4.syeer Eel VI. IN THE GARDEN. . . . 392 
Interlude. . . eae OOG VII. THE Hovusk or EPIMETHEvS 396 
THE SICILIAN’S inn S THE VIII. In THE GARDEN. .. . 397 
Monk oF CASAL-MAGGIORE . 357 
Interlude. . . Nee 360 | be A NGING SS OF ee TEE 
THE SPANISH nee SECOND CRANE S07 ai.(iemnm CE OOO 
TALE: SCANDERBEG . . . 363 
Wiverindee mle . . 365 | MORITURI SALUTAMUS . . 403 
THE MusIcIAN’s Tas THE 
MorTHER’s GHosT . .. . 367 A BOOK OF SONNETS. 
Ie iB Wea Fh AROS THREE FRIENDS OF MINE . . 402 
THE LANDLORD’S weep THE CHAUCERGceciss| \s. kod wcamici oie LOD 
RHYME oF SiR _ CH8RISTO- SHAKESPEARE) |) «6 «iss. sue 411 
PHER SMe hle dS Wis pil sah skOOO AVETEPO NM stig’ ogee ty inediie ath uae kL 
VOGT Sic ae eo) OOH ORAS So cls clit sie ee ees LL 
THe GALAXY .. » . 41% 
FLOWER-DE-LUCE. THE SOUND OF THE Sma, a tick by 
HiOWER-DE-LUCE: 6° 0s ete OTS A SumMeER DAY BY THE SEA. 412 
PALINGENESIS . . Oe bye! THE, TIDES! 2 5 Wty ae 412 
THE BRIDGE OF Choun mee ates A SHADOW . . o « » « 413 
HAWTHORNE. «lec se Gk 4. B76 A NAMELESS GRAVE oe eich oe Lob 
Curistmas BELLS. . . . . 376 SLEEP... : yet 3/413 
THE WIND OVER THE CHIM- THE OLD BRIDGE AT FLor- 
Nev! 203. ag AE AEN a a FNC Bias) des kee cas . . 414 
THE Rives OF ee EIST In PonTE VEOCHIO DI Tes 414 
Kintep AT THE Forp .. . 378 ON Go io a) oo Cae 
Giorro’s TowER . .. . . 379 In THE CHURCHYARD AT TAR- 
T0-MOBROW ileus is beeline) © OC9 EYTOWN 9s 50 memento 414 
Divina CommepIA ... . 3880 Eviot’s OAK . . « - . 415 
NOTA EE ed) ae re. acleeeoetl THE DESCENT OF THF Muara - 415 
VENICE Wi scls6 4. cuearwme saeeitee (40 
BIRDS OF PASSAGE. TH) POETS. a teen tL 
Fuicut tae Turrp. PARKER CLEAVELAND =. 216 
Fata MorgANA ... .« . 382 THE Harvest Moon. . . . 416 
THe HAUNTED CHAMBER . .« 383 To tHe River Ruont . . . 417 
THe MEETING . . . . . .« 383 THE THREE SILENCES OF Mo- 
NOX POPUL, Wryasihe ohio 4. S84 DINOS fake site = Air a1 
Tue CAsTLE-BUILDER . . . 384 Tae Two Rivers. .« . . 417 
CHANGED 3 )5) ahs Ws) ot 9. + (384 Boston . . - . 419 
Tae CHALLENGE . . . 384 Sr. Jonn’s, Campnrpan- 3, 0 aly 
THe BRook AND THE WAVE . 385 Moops. . . “eepets. ‘> 419 
AFTERMATH. . ..... «|. 385 Woopsrock Park . . . . 419 
THE Four PRINCESSES 4T 
THE MASQUE OF PANDORA. WILNA. «ss se e 5 400 
HOLIDAYS ae meu. sta vole nn O 
I, THE WorksHOP oF HE- WiAPENTAKE (15.1) oi) eiblenanmentod 
PHEISTUS 5» «) o «© » « OOO THE BROKEN OAR. . . . 421 


EI OLYMBUS? Ge earner neo. THE Cross or SNOW. . . 421 


TABLE OF CONTENTS xi 





BIRDS OF PASSAGE. SONNETS. 

Fight THE Fourtu. My CATHEDRAL . . - . 453 
CHARLES SUMNER. .*. . . 422 THE BURIAL OF THE iS ae . 454 
TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE. . 422 NIGHT sis ey le oe (eye over 9 S048 
CADENABEIAUE C8 P84. 423 L’Envot. 

Monte Cassino . % . . «423 THE PoET AND HIS Sones. . 454 
AMATEIN GC) 3) / . 425 
THE SERMON OF Sr. nino: 426 see NE ASE ASAT 
Berisaniog. iu. Pain. 2 es 427 BECALMED . . - « « « « 405 
Sonao RIVER . 428 pes Port’s CALENDAR. . . ee 
UTUMN WITHIN. . . 457 
KERAMOS . .. + + + » 428 Tue Four LAKES OF Speer 457 
BIRDS OF PASSAGE. VICTOR AND VANQUISHED . . 458 
MooNLIGHT . . . Bee ites 

Fuieut THE FIrts. THE CHILDREN’S Ceatape . . 459 
Tue Herons oF E~mwoop. . 435 GUNDOWNG hoot cat coc ee wt 460 
A DutcH PicTURE .. . . 435 CHIMES ; ears 461 
CASTLES IN SPAIN. .. . . 436 Four BY THE ieee a a 
VITTORIA COLONNA . . . 438 Aur WIEDERSEHEN ... . 461 
THE REVENGE OF Lo ge ELEGIAC VERSE Dent AG), 

Fack. . = 6s fue Tur CITY AND THE SEA . . 463 
To THE RIVER Narre An S? As) MemMoRIEs ... nu get ah GU 
THE Emprror’s Glove. . . 440 HERMES avbarcerecnrce clube ae 
A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH To tHE AVON... . .« . 465 

FLEET. . . . 440 PRESIDENT GARFIELD .. . 465 
THE LEAP OF Roustan ‘Bue . 441 Mx. BOOKS seuhe Ucein t eh465 
HAROUN AL RAscHID ... . 442 ACAD ER IVER Sa See ee GG 
Kine TRISANKU . . . . « 442 POSSIBILITIES yo) sone Naor: 
A WRAITH IN THE Mist . . 442 DEcoRATION Day... . . 467 
THE THREE KiInGs . . . 443 AVHRAGQMENT. suc) eo 0) es 467 
Sone: ‘STAY, sTAY AT HOME, Loss AND GAIN . . : « « 467 

MY HEART, AND REST’ . . 444 INSCRIPTION ON THE SHANKLIN 
Toe WHITE CZAR. ... . « 445 FounTAIN. .. AGS 
DELIA. «© «+ ee ee . 440 THe BELLS OF SAN Bras 468 

OLTIMA THULE. FRAGMENTS. 

DEDICATION « + + « « » « 446 ‘NEGLECTED RECORD OF A 
PoEms. ' MIND NEGLECTED’ . . . 469 
BAYARD TAYLOR . .*. . «. 446 ‘O FAITHFUL, INDEFATIGABLE 
THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE 446 TIDER Oost nae . 469 
From my ARM-CHAIR .. . 447 ‘Sort THROUGH THE SILENT 
JUGURTHA) .0.'. + =» + « 448 ATR’. suns : . 469 
THe TRoN Pen. ... . . 448 ‘So FROM THE BOSOM OF DARK- 
RoperRT BuRNS. . . . « « 449 NEG 4S Aisle Asus, oy a SOo 

HIgLEN OF MEYRE? ie) = ‘6, + 460 
Eieciac . . . ? _ 459 | CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY. 
Oup St. Davis AT Teionon 451 INTROITUS Mean easm ements SCO 

Foik-Sones. 

Tue SirTine oF Peter. . . 451 PART I. THE DIVINE TRAG- 
MAIDEN AND WEATHERCOCK . 452 EDY. 

THE WINDMILL. ... . . 453 Tue First PAssover. 

THE TIDE RISES, THE TIDE I. Vox Cuamantis . . . 471 


BALLS oe eines is 9 6400 II. Mounr QUARANTANIA . 472 


Kil 


TABLE OF 


CONTENTS 





III. 
Te 
. NAZARETH . 
AVAL 
VII. 


Vill. 
IX. 


X. 


THE MARRIAGE IN CANA 474 
IN THE CORNFIELDS . . 477 
. 478 
THE SEA OF G@asrhen . 480 
THE DEmMoNIAC oF GAD- 
ARAS Pach ete aur Mott & (aoe 
TauitHaA Cumr.. . 484 


THe TowER oF MaAc- 
DALA . 485 

THE HOovusE OF Raby 
THE PHARISEE . . . 487 


THE SECOND PASSOVER. 


I. 


1a 
III. 


IV. 
Vi 


VI. 


VIL. 


VIII. 
IX. 
X. 
XI. 


BEFORE THE GATES OF 
MacH@rRus . . . 488 

HeERop’s BANQUET- Huth, 489 

UNDER THE WALLS OF 


Macua@rus ... . 491 
NicopEmus AT Nieut: . 492 
Buinp BARTIMEUS . . 494 
JacoB’s WELL. . . . 496 
THE CoAstTs oF CmSA- 

REA PHILIPPI . . . 498 
THe Youne Rutger . . 501 
Ag) BETHANY 7%. 2.002 
Born Buind .. . . 503 
SIMON Maeus AND 

HELEN OF TyRE . . 505, 


THE THIRD PASSOVER. 


I. THE ENTRY INTO JERU- 
BALEM sy) bys a ts DOD 
II. Sotomon’s Boker, ee LO 
TITS LORD 1s) ree 7 es OLS 

IV. THE GARDEN OF GETH- 
SEMANE . . » BIB 

V. THE PALACE oF “Gara: 
PEAS ROS. Vie pu (oO LO 
VI. Pontius PILATE . 519 
VII. Barapsas IN Prison . 520 
VIII. Ecc Homo. .': =< . 520 
IX. AcELDAMA . . =: . . 522 
X. THE THREE CrossEs. . 523 
XI. THE Two Maris . . 525 
XII. Tue Sea oF GALILEE . 525 

EPILoGus. 


SympoLum AposToLoRuM . . 528 
First INTERLUDE. 
THe AspBotT JOACHIM. . . . 528 


PART II. THE GOLDEN LE- 


GEND. 


PROLOGUE. 
THe Spire or STRASBURG CaA-~ 


ZHEDRAL S. os)" 6) wns 


. 531 


I. Tue Castine or VAUTs- 
BERG ON THE RHINE 
GouRT- YARD OF THE 
CASTLE 
II. A FARM IN THE Opan 
WALD . 
A Room IN THE Paar 
HOVART) Soesah: 
Ewsin’s CHAMBER. 
THE CHAMBER OF GOTT- 
LIEB AND URSULA. 
A VILLAGE CHURCH . 
A Room IN THE FARM- 
HOUSE . r 
In THE GARDEN . 
III. A StREEr 
BURG ay ata 
SQUARE IN FRONT OF 
THE CATHEDRAL 
IN THE CATHEDRAL . 
THE Nativiry: A Mrra- 
CLE-PLAY. 
INTROITUS! 7) ae ee 
TCH RAVEN ‘ous hanes 
Il. Mary AT # THE 
WELL. .: i 
III. THz ANGELS OF 
THE SEVEN PLAN- 
HTN heel oe 
IV. THE WIskE Mew OF 
THE EAstT 
VY. THE FLIGHT INTO 
EGyPtT . 
VI. THE SLAUGHTER OF 
THE INNOCENTS. 
JEsus AT PLAY 
WITH HIS SCHOOL- 
MATES. . « 
THE VILLAGE 
SGHOGb 4% = . 
CROWNED WITH 
FLOWERS. . 
EPrmoguR . si. +: 
IV. THe Roap To HirscHau 
THE CONVENT oF Hir- 
SCHAU IN THE BLACK 
AIORHBT Aw 4 We). 
THE ScRIPTORIUM . 
THE CLOISTERS ... 
THE CHAPEL . i... 
THE REFECTORY . . 
THE NEIGHBORING Nun- 
INR +t. |. js) Jeet 


IN STRAS- 


VII. 


Vill. 


IX 


: 


. 532 


: 5387 


. 540 


« 543 
. 545 


. 546 
. 548 


. 553 
. 54 


. 555 


. 563 


. 563 


. 564 


565 


. 566 


567 


. 568 
. 568 


569 


70 


. 573 


574 
576 


. Bil 


582 


TABLE OF CONTENTS 


V. A CovERED BRIDGE AT 
LUCERNE . 
Tue Devit’s BriIpGE 
Ture St. GoTHARD PAss 
AT THE Foot OF THE 
ADPS) ce esos 5 
THE INN AT Canoe h 
AT SEA . 
THE SCHOOL oF Sumo 
THE FARM-HOUSE IN THE 
ODENWALD 
Tue CASTLE OF VAUTS- 
BERG ON THE RHINE . 
EPILOGUE. 
Tue Two REcorRDING ANGELS 
ASCENDING 
SEcoNnD INTERLUDE. 
Martin LUTHER ... - 


VI. 


PaRT IIL THE NEW ENG- 
LAND TRAGEDIES. 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 
PROLOGUE lees these) 2 eas 
NCL OM op hile eis cat testes aes 
PATE ES tate sth ate tle uss 
Act III. . Sats 
TACT L Viste ruts: (dit erie 
Act V. 

GiuEs CoREY OF THE Scat 

FARMS. 
PROLOGUE 
Act I. 
Act Ii. 
Aor TIT... 
Act IV... Bee Saas pees) | 
A OB aiVis: Actas Batam it ds 

FINALE. 

STAeOHNe ues on sil (seers 


JUDAS MACCABAUS. 


Act I. THe CrrapeEn or AN- 
TIOCHUS AT JERU- 

SALEM . 

Act II. THE DUNGEONS IN THE 
CITADEL . 

Act III. Toe Barrie - FIrip 
oF BrrH-Horon 

Acr IV. THe OutTER Courts oF 
THE TEMPLE AT JE- 

RUSALEM . 5 

Act VY. THe MovunraiIns oF 
EcBATANA 


. 586 
. 588 


589 


. 590 


593 


. 594 


595 


. 601 


604 


. 606 


. 607 


610 


. 650 
. 658 
. 666 


. 674 
. 681 


. 685 


. 686 
. 690 


. 694 


. 698 


. 702 





MICHAEL ANGELO: A FRAG- 
MENT. 


xii 


DEDICATIONG Ferra eane ts | (oven cle 
Part First. 
I. Pronogur at Iscura. . 705 
MonoLtocuze: THE LAstT 
JUDGMENT Gomes ee Oo 
II. San SinvestrRo. .. . 711 
III. CarpDINnAL IPPOLITO Ethel 
IV. Borgo DELLE VERGINE 
ATINAPLES Sipe ueei es keadiLo 
V. Virroria CouonNNA . . 724 
Part SECOND. 
Ta MONOLOGUE. .k Canes LeU 
LEP MITHREO: |. asus et su doa 
III. MicyarEL ANGELO AND 
BENVENUTO CELLINI . 733 
IV. FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PI- 
OMBO . 138 
V. PALAZZO Curaangon 0 . 744 
VI. PAuAazzo CESARINI . TAT 
ParT THIRD. 
I. Mononoauet . : . 750 
Il. VIGNA DI PAPA Ginn tow 
III. Brypo AutoyitT1 mute S18) 
IV. IN THE CoLIsEUM . A ysays 
V. MacELio DE’ Corvi . . 760 
VI, MicHarEL ANGELO’s STU- 
DEO e cpaiie eae eee are bd 
VII. THz Oaks or Monts 
UU Ae ere uaa COO 
VIII. THe DEAD Canes . 71 
TRANSLATIONS. 
PRELUDE Se hs Pies LD A 
FrRoM THE SPANISH. 
Copuas DE MANRIQUE BS tone artes 
SONNETS. 
I. THz Goop SHEPHERD. Taq 
Il. To-Morrow . 781 
III. THe Native re Tel 
IV. THE IMAGE oF Gop Lee 
V. Tur Brook . 782 
ANCIENT SPANISH ve wietes 
J. Rio Verpr, Rio VerDE 782 
II. Don Nuno, Count oF 


LARA 
III. THE PEASANT LEAVES HIS 
PLOUGH AFIELD . 
VIDA DE SAN MILLAN 


xiv TABLE OF CONTENTS 





San MIGUEL, THE ConvVENT . 785 From THE ANGLO-SAXON. 


Sona: SHE IS A MAID OF ART- THE GRAVE. i eas 
TSS GACH steue oe a: aa onmecleam | OO BEOWULF’s EXPEDITION TO 
Santa TERESA’S Book-MaArkK . 786 HEoRT... sere 
From THE CANCIONEROS. THE SouL’s Dowie AGAINST 
I. Eyes sO TRISTFUL, EYES THE Bopy. 
pe Mas ke 
Se er Ae! 786 Fro., THE FRENCH. 
II. Some DAY, SOME DAY. 786 ; 
III. Come, O DzarH, so sI- Sona: Hark! HARK! . 
CnwdrLyinG aa eereG Sona: AND WHITHER GOEST 
IV. GLOVE oF BLACK IN WHILE Sees) Mite ein 
HAND BARE . . ..0787 THE RETURN OF SPRING 
F E SWEDISH AND DANISH PEeiie 
ROM THE HW : THE CHILD pea 


PassAGES FROM FRITHIOF’S 
SAGA. 
I. Frrruior’s HomresTEAD . 787 


DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP TURPIN 
THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL 


CuILLE . Saas 
II. A SLEDGE - RIDE ON THE A CHRISTMAS Cinocy bus 
IGE Vom ae . 788 CoNnsoLATION 
TII. FRiTHIOF’s Teen TION 789 To CARDINAL ace atee 
IV. Frirnior’s FAREWELL . 790 THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD 
THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD’S On THE TERRACE OF THE AIGA- 
SUPPER Cf ee ans oe aU LADES He tigers Lb A 
King CHRISTUAN, ecaee en ke Meteo To my BROOKLET. .... 
Tue Evectep Knigot . . . 799 BARREGES | 
CHILDHOOD : . ».. = . . 800 WILL EVER THE DEAR DAYS 
FRoM THE GERMAN. COME BACK AGAIN ? 
Tue Happiest LanD .. . 801 At La CHAUDEAU 
ene he ee Ay Quint (UuInm she ues f 
Ta Deine _ . 802 THE WINE OF JURANCON 
THe BIRD AND THE Siete. eon Friar LUBIN . . . . 
WHITHER CMMI Cue ys 6. iCUs RonpEL 
neh cide Rake Oe) ang My SEcRET . 
Sone OF THE pot + eee eastacws | FroM THE ITALIAN. 
THe CASTLE BY THE SEA . . 804 THE CELESTIAL Pinot 
Tue Buack Knient. . . . 804 THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE 
Sone OF THE SILENT LAND . 805 Beireicn | 2 eee 
THe Luck oF EDENHALL . . 806 To IvaLy Res 
THe Two Locks oF Harr. . 807 SEVEN SONNETS AND A CAN- 
‘ THe Hemtock TREE. . . . 807 ZONE. 
ANNIE OF THARAW . . . 808 I. Tue ArTisT . 
Tue STATUE OVER THE Caran Il. Frre 
DRAL Door? -0 a. . 808 Ill. Youru AND ens 
Tue LEGEND OF THE Cues IV. Oup AGE . A 
BILL. . . - 809 V. To VITTORIA Corny, 
Tue SEA HATH ITS ; PEARLS . 809 VI. To Virror1A CoLoNNA 
Poetic APHORISMS .. . . 809 VII. DANTE. 
Sinent Love . . r . 810 VIII. Canzone 
BLESSED ARE THE Daa See OL THe NATURE OF LOVE 
WANDERER’S NIGHT-Sones. . 811 
REMORSENE Se Pee (Sik FRoM THE PORTUGUESE. 
MORBAKEND TS: (2.2 ee ve eoLe Sona: IF THOU ART SLEEP- 
ATTA tc La MMR ete Ole ANG SMEATON cists = crite 


gia 


. 814 


. 815 


. 815 
. 815 
. 816 
. 816 


817 


. 818 
. 825 
. 826 
. 826 
. 826 


. 827 


828 


. 828 


. 829 
. 829 
. 830 
. 830 
. 82 

. 831 
. 831 


. 831 
. 832 
. 833 
. 834 


. $37 


TABLE OF CONTENTS 


From EASTERN SOURCES. 
THE FUGITIVE 
THE SIEGE OF KAZAN 
THE Boy AND THE BROOK . 
TORTIE STORK yc maser ne 
From THE LATIN. 


. 838 


. 839 


Vireit’s First EcLoauz 


Ovip IN EXILE. 


INDEX OF FIRST LINES 


INDEX OF TITLES. 


© 


© 


XV 


. 840 
. 842 


_ 849 


857 


. i. 44 


Pr 
ad N 
g hy 
a 


id ’ ‘ 

5 5k oe sy 
ie ee 
de, ear 

i 





VOICES OF THE NIGHT 


Ilorvea, rérvea vv, 
c 4 A Ys fal 
Umvodéreipa THY ToAUTOVWY BpoTar, 


*EpeBodev Oe" 


pode ode KaTarTEpos 


*"Ayameuvoviov emi Soj.ov" 
td yap adyéwv, vTd Te TUUHOpPas 
Srorxyoued’, oixoueda. 


PRELUDE 


PLEASANT it was, when woods 
were green 
And winds were soft and low, 
To lie amid some sylvan scene, 
Where, the long drooping boughs 
between, 
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen 
Alternate come and go; 


Or where the denser grove receives 
No sunlight from above, 

But the dark foliage interweaves 

In one unbroken roof of leaves, 10 

Underneath whose sloping eaves 
The shadows hardly move. 


Beneath some patriarchal tree 
I lay upon the ground; 
His hoary arms uplifted he, 
And all the broad leaves over me 
Clapped their little hands in glee, 
With one continuous sound; — 


A slumberous sound, a sound that 
brings 
The feelings of a dream, 20 
As of innumerable wings, 
As, when a bell no longer swings, 
Faint the hollow murmur.rings 
O’er meadow, lake, and stream. 


And dreams of that which cannot 
die, 
Bright visions, came to me, 


EvuRIPIDES 


As lapped in thought I used to 
lie, 
And gaze into the summer sky, 
Where the sailing clouds went by, 
Like ships upon the sea ; 30 


Dreams that the soul of youth en- 
gage 
Ere Fancy has been quelled ; 
Old legends of the monkish page, 
Traditions of the saint and sage, 
Tales that have the rime of age, 
And chronicles of eld. 


And, loving still these quaint old 
themes, 
Even in the city’s throng 
I feel the freshness of the streams, 
That, crossed by shades and sunny 
gleams, 40 
Water the green land of dreams, 
The holy land of song. 


Therefore, at Pentecost, which 
brings 
The Spring, clothed like a bride, 
When nestling buds unfold their 
: wings, 
And bishop’s-caps have golden 
rings, 
Musing upon many things, 
I sought the woodlands wide. 


Tne green trees whispered low 
and mild; 
It was a sound of joy! 50 


2 VOICES OF 


THE NIGHT 





They were my playmates when a 


child, ° 
And rocked me in their arms so 
wild! 


Still they looked at me and smiled, 
As if I were a boy; 


And ever whispered, mild and low, 
‘Come, be a child once more!” 
And waved their long arms to and 

fro, 
And beckoned solemnly and slow; 
Oh, I could not choose but go 
Into the woodlands hoar,— 60 


Into the blithe and breathing air, 
Into the solemn wood, 
Solemn and silent everywhere ! 
Nature with folded hands seemed 
there, 
Kneeling at her evening prayer! 
Like one in prayer I stood. 


Before me rose an avenue 
Of tall and sombrous pines; 
Abroad their fan-like branches 


grew, 
And, where the sunshine darted 
through, 7O 


Spread a vapor soft and blue, 
In long and sloping lines. 


And, falling on my weary brain, 
Like a fast-failing shower, 
The dreams of youth came back 
again, — 
Low lispings of the summer rain, 
Dropping on the ripened grain, 
As once upon the flower. 


Visions of childhood! 
stay ! 

Ye were so sweet and wild! 80 
And distant voices seemed to say, 
‘It cannot be! They pass away! 
Other themes demand thy lay ; 

Thou art no more a child! 


Stay, oh, 


‘The land of Song within thee lies, 
Watered by living springs; 
The lids of Fancy’s sleepless eyes 


Are gates unto that Paradise ; 
Holy thoughts, like stars, arise; 
Its clouds are angels’ wings. 90 


‘Learn, that henceforth thy song 
shall be, 
mountains capped with 
snow, 
Nor forests sounding like the sea, 
Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly, 
Where the woodlands bend to see 
The bending heavens below. 


Not 


‘ There is a forest where the din 
Of iron branches sounds! 
A mighty river roars between, 
And whosoever looks therein 100 
Sees the heavens all black with 
sin, 
Sees not its depths, nor bounds. 


‘Athwart the swinging branches 
cast, 
Soft rays of sunshine pour; 
Then comes the fearful wintry 
blast; 
Our hopes, like withered leaves, 
fall fast; 
Pallid lips say, ‘ It-is past ! 
We can return no more!’ 


‘Look, then, into thine heart, and 
write! 

Yes, into Life’s deep stream! r1o0 
All forms of sorrow and delight, 
All solemn Voices of the Night, 
That can soothe thee, or affright, — 

Be these henceforth thy theme.’ 


HYMN TO THE NIGHT 


‘Aonagin, TplAAoTos 


I HEARD the trailing garments of 
the Night 
Sweep through her marble hallsi 
I saw her sable skirts all fringed 
with light 
From the celestial walls! 


THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS 3 





I felt her presence, by its spell of 
might, 
Stoop o’er me from above ; 
The calm, majestic presence of the 
Night, 
As of the one I love. 


I heard the sounds of sorrow and 
delight, 
The manifold, soft chimes, 
That fill the haunted chambers of 
the Night, 
Like some old poet’s rhymes. 


From the cool cisterns of the mid- 
night air 
My spirit drank repose ; 
The fountain of perpetual peace 
flows there, — 
From those deep cisterns flows. 


O holy Night! from thee I learn to 
bear 
What man has borne before! 
Thou layest thy finger on the lips 
of Care, 
And they complain no more. 


Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I 
breathe this prayer! 
Descend with broad- winged 
flight, 
The welcome, the thrice - prayed 
for, the most fair, 
The best-beloved Night! 


A PSALM OF LIFE 


WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG 
MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST 


TELL me not, in mournful num- 
bers, 
Life is but an empty dream ! — 
For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
And things are not what they 
seem. 


Life isreal! Life is earnest! 
And the grave is not its goal; 


Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 
Was not spoken of the soul. 


Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 
Find us farther than to-day. 


Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 
And our hearts, though stout and 
brave, 
Still, like muffled drums, are beat- 
ing 
Funeral marches to the grave. 


In the world’s broad field of battle, 
In the bivouae of Life, 

Be not like dumb, driven cattle! 
Be a hero in the strife! 


Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant! 
Let the dead Past bury its dead! 

Act, — act in the living Present! 
Heart within, and God o’erhead! 


Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time; 


Footprints, that perhaps another, 
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, 
A forlornand shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 


Let us, then, be up and doing, 
With a heart for any fate; 
Still achieving, still pursuing, 
Learn to labor and to wait. 


THE REAPER AND THE 
FLOWERS 


THERE is a Reaper, whose nams 
is Death, 
And, with his sickle keen, 
He reaps the bearded grain at a 
breath, 
And the flowers that grow be’ 
tween. 


4 VOICES OF THE NIGHT 





‘Shall I have naught that is fair?’ 
saith he; 
‘Have naught but the bearded 
grain? 
Though the breath of these flowers 
is sweet to me, 
I will give them all back again.’ 


He gazed at the flowers with tear- 
ful eyes, 
He kissed their drooping leaves ; 
It was for the Lord of Paradise 
He bound them in his sheaves. 


*My Lord has need of these flower- 
ets gay,’ 
The Reaper said, and smiled; 
Dear tokens of the earth are they, 
Where He was once a child. 


*They shall all bloom in fields of 
light, 
Transplanted by my care, 
And saints, upon their garments 
white, 
These sacred blossoms wear.’ 


And the mother gave, in tears and 
pain, 
The flowers she most did love ; 
She knew she should find them all 
again 
In the fields of light above. 


Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 
The Reaper came that day; 
"T was an angel visited the green 
earth, 
And took the flowers away. 


THE LIGHT OF STARS 


THE night is come, but not too 
soon; 
And sinking silently, 
All silently, the little moon 
Drops down behind the sky. 


There is no lightin earth or heaven 
But the cold light of stars; 


And the first watch of night is 
given 
To the red planet Mars. 


Is it the tender star of love? 
The star of love and dreams? 
Oh no! from that blue tent above 
A hero’s armor gleams. 


And earnest thoughts within me 
rise, 
When I behold afar, 
Suspended in the evening skies, 
The shield of that red star. 
O star of strength! I see thee 
stand 
And smile upon my pain; 
Thou beckonest with thy mailéd 
hand, 
And I am strong again. 


Within my breast there is no light 
But the cold light of stars ; 

T give the first watch of the night 
To the red planet Mars. 


The star of the unconquered will, 
He rises in my breast, 

Serene, and resolute, and-still, 
And calm and self-possessed. 


And thou, too, whosoe’er thou art, 
That readest this brief psalm, 

As one by one thy hopes depart, 
Be resolute and calm. 


Oh, fear not in a world like this, 
And thou shalt know erelong, 

Know how sublime a thing it is 
To suffer and be strong. 


FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS 


WHEN the hours of Day are num: 
bered, 
And the voices of the Night 
Wake the better soul, that slum 
bered, 
Toa holy, calm delight; 


FLOWERS 5 





o=— 


Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
And, like phantoms grim and tall, 

Shadows from the fitful firelight 
Dance upon the parlor wall; 


Then the forms of the departed 
Enter at the open door; 

The beloved, the true-hearted, 
Come to visit me once more; 


He, the young and strong, who 
cherished 
Noble longings for the strife, 
By the roadside fell and perished, 
Weary with the march of life! 


They, the holy ones and weakly, 
Who the cross of suffering bore, 

Folded their pale hands so meekly, 
Spake with us on earth no more! 


And with them the Being Beaute- 
ous, 
Who unto my youth was given, 
More than all things else to love 
me, 
And is now a saint in heaven. 


With aslow and noiseless footstep 
Comes that messenger divine, 
Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
‘Lays her gentle hand in mine. 


And she sits and gazes at me 
With those deep and tender eyes, 
Like the stars, so still and saint- 
like, 
Looking downward from the 
skies, 


Uttered not, yet comprehended, 
Is the spirit’s voiceless prayer, 

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, 
Breathing from her lips of air. 


Oh, though oft depressed and 
lonely, 
All my fears are laid aside, 
}f [ but. remember only 
Such as these have lived and 
died! 





FLOWERS 


SPAKE full well, in language quaint 
and olden, 
One who dwelleth by the castled 
Rhine, 
When he called the flowers, so blue 
and golden, 
Stars, that in earth’s firmament 
do shine. 


Stars they are, wherein we read 
our history, 
As astrologers and seers of 
eld; 
Yet not wrapped about with awful 
mystery, 
Like the burning stars, which 
they beheld. 


Wondrous truths, and manifold as 
wondrous, 
God hath written in those stars 
above; 
But not less in the bright flowerets 
under us 
Stands the revelation of his love. 


Bright and glorious is that revela- 
tion, 
Written all over this great world 
of ours; 
Making evident our own creation, 
In these stars of earth, these 
golden flowers. 


And the Poet, faithful and far-see- 
ing, 
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, 
a part 
Of the self-same, universal being, 
Which is throbbing in his brain 
and heart. 


Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight 
shining, 
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of 
day, 
Tremulous leaves, in soft and 
silver lining, 
Buds that open only to decay ; 


6 VOICES OF THE NIGHT 


_—— 


Brilliant hopes, all woven in gor- 
geous tissues, 
Flaunting gayly in the goiden 
light; 
Large desires, with most uncertain 
issues, 


Tender wishes, blossoming at | 


night! 


These in flowers and men are more 
than seeming, 
Workings are they of the self- 
same powers, 
Which the Poet, in no idle dream- 
ing, 
Seeth in himself and in the flow- 
ers. 


Everywhere about us are they 
glowing, 
Some like stars, to tell us Spring 
is born; 
Others, their blue eyes with tears 
overflowing, 
Stand like Ruth amid the golden 
corn; 


Not alone in Spring’s armorial 
bearing, 
And in Summer’s green-embla- 
zoned field, 
But inarms of brave old Autumn’s 
wearing, 
In the centre of his brazen shield; 


Not alone in meadows and green 


alleys, 
On the mountain-top, and by the 
brink 
Of sequestered pools in woodland 
valleys, 


Where the slaves of nature stoop 
to drink ; 


Not alone in her vast dome of glory, 

Not on graves of bird and beast 
alone, 

But in old cathedrals, high and 
hoary, 


On the tombs of heroes, carved 


in stone ; 





In the cottage of the rudest pea 
sant, 
In ancestral homes, whose crun« 
bling towers, 
Speaking of the Past unto the Pre. 
sent, 
Tell us of the ancient Games of 
Flowers ; 


In all places, then, and in all sea- 
sons, 
Flowers expand their light and 
soullike wings, 
Teaching us, by most persuasive 


reasons, 
How akin they are to human 
things. 
And with childlike, credulcus af- 
fection, 
We behold their tender buds ex. 
pand ; 
Emblems of our own great resur.- 
rection, 
Emblems of the bright and better 
land. 


THE BELEAGUERED CITY 


I HAVE read, in some old, marvel- 
lous tale, 
Some legend strange and vague, 
That a midnight host of spectres 
pale 
Beleaguered the walls of Prague. 


Beside the 
stream, 
With the wan moon overhead, 
There stood, as in an awful dream, 
The army of the dead. 


Moldau’s — rushing 


White as a sea-fog, landward 
bound, 
The spectral camp was seen, 
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 
The river flowed between. 


No other voice nor sound was 
there, 
No drum, nor sentry’s pace; 


MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR 4 





The mist-like banners clasped the 
air 
As clouds with clouds embrace. 


But when the old cathedral bell 
Proclaimed the morning prayer, 

The white pavilions rose and fell 
On the alarméd air. 


Down the broad valley fast and 
far 
The troubled army fled: 
Up rose the glorious morning star, 
The ghastly host was dead. 


I have read, in the marvellous 
heart of man, 
That strange and mystic scroll, 
That an army of phantoms vast 
and wan 
Beleaguer the human soul. 


Encamped beside Life’s rushing 


stream, 
In Fancy’s misty light, 
Gigantic shapes and shadows 
gleam 


Portentous through the night. 


Upon its midnight battle-ground 
The spectral camp is seen, 

And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 
Flows the River of Life between. 


No other voice nor sound is there, 
In the army of the grave ; 
No other challenge breaks the 
air, 
But the rushing of Life’s wave. 


And when the solemn and deep 
church-bell 
Entreats the soul to pray, 
The midnight phantoms feel the 
spell, 
The shadows sweep away. 


Down the broad Vale of Tears afar 
The spectral camp is fled; 

Faith shineth as a morning star, 
Our ghastly fears are dead. 


MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE 
DYING YEAR 


YES, the Year is growing old, 
And his eye is pale and bleared! 
Death, with frosty hand and cold, 
Plucks the old man by the beard, 
Sorely, sorely! 


The leaves are falling, falling, 
Solemnly and slow; 
Caw! caw! the rooks are calling, 
It is a sound of woe, 
A sound of woe! 


Through woods and mountain 
passes 
The winds, like anthems, roll; 
They are chanting solemn masses, 
Singing, ‘ Pray for this poor soul, 
Pray, pray!’ 


And the hooded clouds, like fri- 
ars, 
Tell their beads in drops of 
rain, 
And patter their doleful prayers ; 
But their prayers are all in vain, 
Allin vain! 


There he stands in the foul wea- 
ther, 
The foolish, fond Old Year, 
Crowned with wild flowers and 
with heather, 
Like weak, despised Lear, 
A king, a king! 


Then comes the summer-like day, 
Bids the old man rejoice! 
His joy! his last! Oh, the old man 
gray 
Loveth that ever-soft voice, 
Gentle and low. 


To the crimson woods he saith, 
To the voice gentle and low 
Of the soft air, like a daughter's 
breath, 
‘Pray do not mock me so! 
Do not laugh at me!” 


8 EARLIER POEMS 





And now the sweet day is dead; 
Cold in his arms it lies; 


No stain from its breath is spread 


Over the glassy skies, 
No mist or stain! 


Then, too, the Old Year dieth, 
And the forests utter a moan, 
Like the voice of one who crieth 
In the wilderness alone, 
‘Vex not his ghost!’ 


Then comes, with an awful roar, 
Gathering and sounding on, 
The storm-wind from Labrador, 
The wind Euroclydon, 

The storm-wind! 


Howl! howl! and from the for. 
est 
Sweep the red leaves away! 
Would the sins that thou abhor. 
rest, 
O soul! could thus decay, 
And be swept away! 


For there shall come a mightier 
blast, 
There shall be a darker day; 
And the stars, from heaven down- 
cast 
Like red leaves be swept away! 
Kyrie, eleyson! 
Christe, eleyson! 


EARLIER POEMS 


AN APRIL DAY 


WHEN the warm sun, that 
brings 
Seed-time and harvest, has re- 
turned again, 
*T is sweet to visit the still wood, 
where springs 
The first flower of the plain. 


I love the season well, 
When forest glades are teeming 
with bright forms, 
Nor dark and many-folded clouds 
foretell 
The coming-on of storms. 


From the earth’s loosened 
mould 
The sapling draws its sustenance, 
and thrives; 
Though stricken to the heart with 
winter’s cold, 
The drooping tree revives. 


The softly-warbled song 
Comes from the pleasant woods, 
and colored wings 


Glance quick in the bright sun, 
that moves along 
The forest openings. 


When the bright sunset fills 
The silver woods with light, the 
green slope throws 
Its shadows in the hollows of the 
hills, 
And wide the upland glows. 


And when the eve is born, 
In the blue lake the sky, o’er- 
reaching far, 
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips 
her horn, 
And twinkles many a star. 


Inverted in the tide 
Stand the gray rocks, and trem- 
bling shadows throw, 
And the fair trees look over, side 
by side, 
And see themselves below. 


Sweet April! many a thought 
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are 
wed; 








Nor shall they fail, till, to its au- 
tumn brought, 
Life’s golden fruit is shed. 


AUTUMN 


WITH what a glory comes and 


goes the year! 

The buds of spring, those beauti- 
ful harbingers 

Of sunny skies and cloudless 
times, enjoy 

Life’s newness, and earth’s garni- 
ture spread out; 

And when the silver habit of the 
clouds 

Comes down upon the autumn sun, 
and with 

A sober gladness the old year 
takes up 

His bright inheritance of golden 
fruits, 

A pomp and pageant fill the splen- 
did scene. 


There is a beautiful spirit breath- 

ing now 

Its mellow richness on the clus- 
tered trees, 

And, from a beaker full of richest 
dyes, 

Pouring new glory on the autumn 
woods, 

And dipping in warm light the pil- 
lared clouds. 

Morn on the mountain, like a sum- 
mer bird, 

Lifts up her purple wing, and in 
the vales 

The gentle wind, a sweet and pas- 
sionate wooer, 

Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs 
up life 

Within the solemn woods of ash 
deep-crimsoned, 

And silver beech, and maple yel- 
low-leaved, 

Where Autumn, like a faint old 
man, sits down 

By the waysidea-weary. Through 
the trees 


WOODS IN WINTER 9 


The golden robin moves. The 
purple finch, 

That on wild cherry and red cedar 
feeds, 

A. winter bird, comes with its 
plaintive whistle, 

And pecks: by the witch-hazel, 
whilst aloud 

From cottage roofs the warbling 

bluebird sings, 

merrily, with 

stroke, 

Sounds from the threshing-floor 
the busy flail. 


And oft-repeated 


Oh, what a glory doth this 

world put on 

For him who, with a fervent heart, 
goes forth 

Under the bright and glorious sky, 
and looks 

On duties well performed, and days 
well spent! 

For him the wind, ay, and the yel- 
low leaves, 

Shall have a voice, and give him 
eloquent teachings. 

He shall so hear the solemn hymn 
that Death 

Has lifted up for all, that he shall 
go 

To his long resting-place without 
a tear. 


WOODS IN WINTER 


WHEN winter winds are piercing 
chill, 
And through the hawthorn blows 
the gale, 
With solemn feet I tread the hill, 
That overbrows the lonely vale. 


O’er the bare upland, and away 
Through the long reach of desert 
woods, 
The embracing sunbeams chastely 
play, 
And gladden these deep soli 
tudes. 


Io 


EARLIER POEMS 





Where, twisted round the barren 


oak, 
The summer vine in beauty 
clung, 
And summer winds the stillness 
broke, 


The crystal icicle is hung. 


Where, from their frozen urns, 
mute springs 
Pour out the river’s gradual 
tide, 
shrilly the skater’s iron rings, 
And voices fill the woodland 
side. 


Alas! how changed from the fair 
scene, 
When birds sang out their mel- 
low lay, 
And winds were soft, and woods 
were green, 
And the song ceased not with 
the day! 


But still wild music is abroad, 
Pale, desert woods! within your 
crowd; 
And gathering winds, in hoarse 
accord, 
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. 


Chill airs and wintry winds! my 
ear 
Has grown familiar with your 
song; 
I hear it in the opening year, 
I listen, and it cheers me long. 


HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN 
NUNS OF BETHLEHEM 


AT THE CONSECRATION OF PU- 
LASKI’S BANNER 


WHEN the dying flame of day 
Through the chancel shot its ray, 
Far the glimmering tapers shed 
Faint light on the cowléd head; 


And the censer burning S8wung, 

Where, before the altar, hung 

The crimson banner, that with 
prayer 

Had been consecrated there. 

And the nuns’ sweet hymn was 
heard the while, 

Sung low, in the dim, mysterious 
aisle. 


‘Take thy banner! May it wave 
Proudly o’er the good and brave; 
When the battle’s distant wail 
Breaks the sabbath of our vale, 
When the clarion’s music thrills 
To the hearts of these lone hills, 
When the spear in conflict shakes, 
And the strong lance shivering 
breaks. 


‘Take thy banner! and, beneath 

The battle - cloud’s’ encireling 
wreath, 

Guard it, till our homes are free! 

Guard it! God will prosper thee! 

In the dark and trying hour, 

In the breaking forth of power, 

In the rush of steeds and men, 

His right hand will shield thee 
then. 


‘Take thy banner! 
night 

Closes round the ghastly fight, 

If the vanquished warrior bow, 

Spare him! By our holy vow, 

By our prayers and many tears, 

By the mercy that endears, 

Spare him! he our love hath 
shared! 

Spare him! as thou wouldst be 
spared! 


But when 


‘Take thy banner! and if e’er 

Thou shouldst press the soldier’s 
bier, 

And the muffled drum should beat 

To the tread of mournful feet, 

Then this crimson flag shall be 

Martial cloak and shroud for 
thee.’ 


THE SPIRITS OR POETRY rt 





The warrior took that banner 
proud, 
And it was his martial cloak and 


shroud ! 


SUNRISE ON THE HILLS 


I stoop upon the hills, when 

heaven’s wide arch 

Was glorious with the sun’s return- 
ing march, 

And woods were brightened, and 
soft gales 

Went forth to kiss the sun-clad 
vales. 

The clouds were far beneath me; 
bathed in light, 

They gathered midway round the 
wooded height, 

And, in their fading glory, shone 

Like hosts in battle overthrown, 

As many a pimacle, with shifting 
glance, 

Through the gray mist thrust up 
its shattered lance, 

And rocking on the cliff was left 

The dark pine blasted, bare, and 
cleft. 

The veil of cloud was lifted, and 
below 

Glowed the rich valley, and the 
river’s flow 

Was darkened by the forest’s 
shade, 

Or glistened in the white cascade; 

Where upward, in the mellow 
blush of day, 

The noisy bittern wheeled his spi- 
ral way. 


I heard the distant waters dash, 

I saw the current whirl and flash, 

And richly, by the blue lake’s sil- 
ver beach, 

The woods were bending with a si- 
lent reach. 

Then o’er the vale, with gentle 
swell, 

The music of the village bell 

Came sweetly to the echo-giving 
hills ; 


And the wild horn, whose voice 
the woodland fills, 

Was ringing to the merry shout 

That faint and far the glen sent 
out, 

Where, answering to the sudden 
shot, thin smoke, 

Through thick-leaved branches, 
from the dingle broke. 


If thou art worn and hard beset 
With sorrows, that thou wouldst 
forget, 
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that 
will keep 
Thy heart from fainting and thy 
soul from sleep, 


Go to the woods and hills! No 
tears 

Dim the sweet look that Nature 
wears. 


THE SPIRIT OF POETRY 


THERE is a quiet Spirit in these 
woods, 

That dwells where’er the gentle 
south-wind blows; 

Where, underneath the white- 
thorn in the glade, 

The wild flowers bloom, or, Kiss- 
ing the soft air, 

The leaves above their sunny 
palms outspread. 

With what a tender and impas. 
sioned voice 

It fills the nice and delicate ear of 
thought, 

When the fast ushering star of 
morning comes 

Over - riding the gray hills with 
golden scarf; 

Or when the cowled and dusky- 
sandalled Eve, 

In mourning weeds, from out the 
western gate, 

Departs with silent pace! 
spirit moves 

In the green valley, where the sik 
ver brook, 


That 


12 EARLIER POEMS 





From its full laver, pours the white 
cascade ; 

And, babbling low amid the tan- 
gled woods, 

Slips down through moss-grown 
stones with endless laughter. 

And frequent, on the everlasting 
hills, 

Its feet go forth, when it doth 
wrap itself 

In all the dark embroidery of the 
storm, 

And shouts the stern, strong wind. 
And here, amid 

The silent majesty of these deep 
woods, 

Its presence shall uplift thy 
thoughts from earth, 

As to the sunshine and the pure, 
bright air 

Their tops the green trees lift. 
Hence gifted bards 

Have ever loved the calm and 
quiet shades. 

For them there was an eloquent 
voice in all 

The sylvan pomp of woods, the 
golden sun, 

The flowers, the leaves, the river 
on its way, 

Blue skies, and silver clouds, and 
gentle winds, 

The swelling upland, where the 
sidelong sun 

Aslant the wooded slope, at even- 
ing, goes, 

Groves, through whose broken 
roof the sky looks in, 

Mountain, and shattered cliff, and 
sunny vale, 

The distant lake, fountains, and 
mighty trees, 

In many a lazy syllable, repeat- 
ing 

Their old poetic legends to the 
wind. 


And this is the sweet spirit, that 
doth fill 
The world; and, in these wayward 
days of youth, 


My busy fancy oft embodies it, 

As a bright image of the light and 
beauty 

That dwell in nature; of the hea- 
venly forms 

We worship in our dreams, and 
the soft hues 

That stain the wild bird’s wing, 
and flush the clouds 

When the sun sets. Within her 
tender eye 

The heaven of April, with its 
changing light, 

And when it wears the blue of 
May, is hung, 

And on her lip the rich, red rose. 
Her hair 

Is like the summer tresses of the 
trees, 

When twilight makes them brown, 
and on her cheek 

Blushes the richness of an autumn 
sky, 

With ever-shifting beauty. Then 
her breath, 

It is so like the gentle air of 
Spring, 

As, from the morning’s dewy flow- 
ers, it comes 

Full of their fragrance, that it is a 
Joy 

To have it round us, and her silver 
voice 

Is the rich music of a summer 
bird, 

Heard in the still night, with its 
passionate cadence. 


BURIAL OF THE MINNI- 
SINK 


ON sunny slope and beechen 
swell, 

The shadowed light of evening fell; 

And, where the maple’s leaf was 
brown, 

With soft and silent lapse came 
down, 

The glory, that the wood receives, 

At sunset, in its golden leaves. 


L’ENVOI 13 





far upward in the mellow light 

Rose the blue hills. One cloud of 
white, 

Around a far uplifted cone, 

In the warm blush of evening 
shone; 

An image of the silver lakes, 

By which the Indian’s soul awakes. 


But soon a funeral hymn was 
heard 

Where the soft breath of evening 
stirred 

The tall, gray forest ; and a band 

Of stern in heart, and strong in 
hand, 

Came winding down beside the 
wave, 

To lay the red chief in his grave. 


They sang, that by his native 


bowers 

He stood, in the last moon of flow- 
ers, 

And thirty snows had not yet 
shed 


Their glory on the warrior’s head; 
But, as the summer fruit decays, 
So died he in those naked days. 


A dark cloak of the roebuck’s 
skin 

Covered the warrior, and within 

Its heavy folds the weapons, 
made 

For the hard toils of war, were 
laid; 

The cuirass, woven 
reeds, 

And the broad belt of shells and 
beads. 


of plaited 


Before, a dark-haired virgin train 

Chanted the death dirge of the 
slain; 

- Behind, the long procession came 

Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, 

With heavy hearts, and eyes of 
grief, 

Leading the war-horse of their 
chief. 





Stripped of his proud and martial 
dress, 
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, 


With darting 
spread, 

And heavy and impatient tread, 

He came; and oft that eye so 
proud 

Asked for his rider in the crowd. 


eye, and nostril 


They buried the dark chief; they 
freed 

Beside the grave his battle steed; 

And swift an arrow cleaved its 
way 

To his stern heart! 
neigh 

Arose, and, on the dead man’s 
plain, 

The rider grasps his steed again. 


One piercing 


L’ENVOI 


YE voices, that arose 

After the Evening’s close, 

And whispered to my restless 
heart repose ! 


Go, breathe it in the ear 

Of all who doubt and fear, 

And say to them, ‘Be of good 
cheer !’ 


Ye sounds, so low and calm, 

That in the groves of balm 

Seemed to me like an angel’s 
psalm! 


Go, mingle yet once more 
With the perpetual roar 
Of the pine forest, dark and hoar! 


Tongues of the dead, not lost, 
But speaking from death’s frost, 
Like fiery tongues at Pentecost! 


Glimmer, as funeral lamps, 

Amid the chills and damps 

Of the vast plain where Death en 
camps ! 


14 


BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 





BALLADS AND 


THE SKELETON IN ARMOR 
‘SPEAK! speak! thou fearful 
guest! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, . 
Comest to daunt me! 
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms, 
Why dost thou haunt me?’ 


Then, from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise, 10 
As when the Northern skies 
Gleam in December; ° 
And, like the water’s flow 
Under December’s snow, 
Came a dull voice of woe 
From the heart’s chamber. 


‘I was a Viking old! 
My deeds, though manifold, 
No Skald in song has told, 

No Saga taught thee! 20 
Take heed, that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse, 

Else dread a dead man’s curse; 

For this I sought thee. 


‘Far in the Northern Land, 
By the wild Baltic’s strand, 
I, with my childish hana, 
Tamed the gerfalcon ; 
And, with my skates fast-bound, 
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 30 
That the poor whimpering hound 
Trembled to walk on. 


‘Oft to his frozen lair 
Tracked I the grisly hear, 
While from my path the hare 
Fled like a shadow ; 
Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were-wolf’s bark, 
Until the soaring lark 
Sang from the meadow. 40 


OTHER POEMS 


‘But when I older grew, 

Joining a corsair’s crew, 

O’er the dark sea I flew 
With the marauders. 

Wild was the life we led; 

Many the souls that sped, 

Many the hearts that bled, 
By our stern orders. 


‘Many a wassail-bout 
Wore the long Winter out; 50 
Often our midnight shout 

Set the cocks crowing, 
As we the Berserk’s tale 
Measured in cups of ale, 
Draining the oaken pail, 

Filled to o’erflowing. 


‘Once as I told in glee 
Tales of the stormy sea, 
Soft eyes did gaze on me, 
Burning yet tender; 66 
And as the white stars shine 
On the dark Norway pine, 
On that dark heart of mine 
Fell their soft splendor. 


‘IT wooed the blue-eyed maid, 
Yielding, yet half afraid, 
And in the forest’s shade 

Our vows were plighted. 
Under its loosened vest 
Fluttered her little breast, 70 
Like birds within their nest 

By the hawk frighted. 


‘Bright in her father’s hall 
Shields gleamed upon the wall, 
Loud sang the minstrels all, 
Chanting his glory ; 
When of old Hildebrand 
I asked his daughter’s hand, 
Mute did the minstrels stand 
To hear my story. 8a 


‘While the brown ale he quaffed, 
Loud then the champion laughed, 


THE WRECK OF 


THE HESPERUS 15 





And as the wind-gusts waft 
The sea-foam brightly, 

So the loud laugh of scorn, 

Out of those lips unshorn, 

From the deep drinking-horn 
Blew the foam lightly. 


‘She was a Prince’s child, 

I but a Viking wild, 

And though she blushed Med 

smiled, 

I was discarded! 

Should not the dove so white 

Follow the sea-mew’s flight, 

Why did they leave that night 
Her nest unguarded ? 


‘Scarce had I put to sea, 
Bearing the maid with me, 
Fairest of all was she 

Among the Norsemen! 
When on the white sea-strand, 
Waving his arméd hand, 
Saw we old Hildebrand, 

With twenty horsemen. 


Io0o 


‘Then launched they to the blast, 
Bent like a reed each mast, 
Yet we were gaining fast, 
When the wind failed us ; 
And with a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw, 
So that our foe we saw 
Laugh as he hailed us. 


110 


‘And as to catch the gale 
Round veered the flapping sail, 
“Death!” was the helmsman’s hail 
“Death without quarter!” 
Mid-ships with iron keel 
Struck we her ribs of steel; 
Down her black hulk did reel 
Through the black water! 120 
* As with his wings aslant, 
Sails the fierce cormorant, 
Secking some rocky haunt, 
With his prey laden, — 
So toward the open main, 
Beating to sea again, 
Through the wild hurricane, 
Bore I the maiden. 


‘Three weeks we westward bore, 
And when the storm was o’er, 130 
Cloud-like we saw the shore 
Stretching to leeward ; 
There for my lady’s bower 
Built I the lofty tower, 
Which, to this very hour, 
Stands looking seaward. 


‘There lived we many years; 
Time dried the maiden’s tears; 
She had forgot her fears, 

She was a mother ; 146 
Death closed her mild blue eyes, 
Under that tower she lies; 

Ne’er shall the sun arise 

On such another ! 


| 
‘ Still grew my bosom then, 


Still as a stagnant fen! 
Hateful to me were men, 
The sunlight hateful! 

In the vast forest here, 

Clad in my warlike gear, 

Fell I upon my spear, 
Oh, death was grateful! 


150 


‘Thus, seamed with many sears, 
Bursting these prison bars, 
Up to its native stars 
My soul ascended! 
There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the warrior’s soul, 
Skoal! to the Northland! skoal? 
Thus the tale ended. 160 


THE WRECK OF THE 
HESPERUS 


It was the schooner Hesperus, 
That sailed the wintry sea; 
And the skipper had taken his little 

daughter, 
To bear him company. 


Blue were her eyes as the fairy 
flax, 
Her cheeks like the dawn or 
day, 
And her bosom white as the haw- 
thorn buds, 
That ope in the month of May. 


16 BALLADS AND 


The skipper he stood beside the 
helm, 
His pipe was in his mouth, 
And he watched how the veering 
flaw did blow 
The smoke now West, now 
South. 


Then up and spake an old Sailor, 
Had sailed to the Spanish 
Main, 
*I pray thee, put into yonder port, 
For I fear a hurricane. 


‘Last night, the moon had a golden 
ring, 
And to-night no moon we see!’ 
The skipper, he blew a whiff from 
his pipe, 
And a scornful laugh laughed 
he. 


Colder and louder blew the wind, 
A gale from the Northeast, 
The snow fell hissing in the brine, 
And the billows frothed like 

yeast. 


Down came the storm, and smote 
amain 
The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused, like a 
frighted steed, 
Then leaped her cable’s length. 


‘Come hither! come hither! my 
little daughter, 
And do not tremble so; 
For I can weather the roughest 
gale 
That ever wind did blow.’ 


He wrapped her warm in his sea- 
man’s coat 
Against the stinging blast; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 
And bound her to the mast. 


‘O father! I hear the church-bells 
ring, 
Oh say, what may it be?” 


OTHER POEMS 





— 


‘“*T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound 


coast!’ — 
And he steered forthe open sea. 


‘O father! 
guns, 
Oh say, what may it be?’ 
‘Some ship in distress, that cannot 
live 
In such an angry sea!? 


I hear the sound of 


*O father! I see a gleaming light, 
Oh say, what may it be?’ 


‘But the father answered never a 


word, 
A frozen corpse was he. 


Lashed to the helm, all stiff and 
stark, 
With his face turned to the 
skies, 
The lantern gleamed through the 
gleaming snow 
On his fixed and glassy eyes. 


Then the maiden clasped her hands 
and prayed 
That savéd she might be; 
And she thought of Christ, who 
stilled the wave, 
On the Lake of Galilee. 


And fast through the midnight 
dark and drear, 
Through the whistling sleet 
and snow, 
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel 
swept 
Tow’rds the reef of Norman’s 
Woe. 


And ever the fitful gusts between 
A sound came from the land; 
It was the sound of the trampling 
surt 
On the rocks and the hard sea- 
sand. 


The breakers were right beneath 
her bows, 
She drifted a dreary wreck, 


THE VILLAGE 


BLACKSMITH 17 





And a whooping billow swept the 
crew 
Like icicles from her deck. 


She struck where the white and 
fleecy waves 
Looked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her 
side 
Like the horns of an angry 
bull. 


Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed 
in ice, 
With the masts went by the 
board; 
Like a vessel of glass, she stove 
and sank, 
Ho! ho! the breakers roared! 


At daybreak, on the bleak sea- 
beach, 
A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden 
fair, 
Lashed close to a drifting mast. 


The salt sea was frozen on her 
-breast, 
The salt tears in her eyes; 
And he sawher hair, like the brown 
seaweed, 
On the billows fall and rise. 


Such was the wreck of the Hes- 
perus, 
In the midnight and the snow! 
Shrist save us all from a death 
like this, 
On the reef of Norman’s Woe! 


THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 


UNDER a Spreading chestnut-tree 
The village smithy stands ; 

The smith, a mighty man is he, 
With large and sinewy hands; 
And the muscles of his brawny 

arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 


His hair is crisp, and black, and 
long, 
His face is like the tan; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat, 
He earns whate’er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the 
face, 
For he owes not any man. 


Week in, week out, from morn till 
night, 
You can hear his bellows blow: 
You can hear him swing his heavy 
sledge, 
With measured beat and slow, 
Like a sexton ringing the village 
bell, 
When the evening sun is low. 


And children coming home from 
school 
Look in at the open door; 
They love to see the flaming forge, 
And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks that 
fly 
Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 


He goes on Sunday to the church, 
And sits among his boys, 
He hears the parson pray and 
preach, 
He hears his daughter’s voice, 
Singing in the village choir, 
And it makes his heart rejoice. 


Tt sounds to him like her mother’s 
voice, 
Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once 
more, 
How in the grave she lies; 
And with his hard, rough hand he 
wipes 
A tear out of his eyes. 


Toiling, —rejoicing, — sorrowing, 
Onward through life he goes ; 
Each morning sees some task be: 

gin, 
Each evening sees it close : 


18 BALLADS AND 


OTHER POEMS 





Something attempted, something 
done, 
Has earned a night’s repose. 


Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy 
friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught! 
Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought; 
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought. 


ENDYMION 


THE rising moon has hid the stars ; 

Her level rays, like golden bars, 
Lie on the landscape green, 
With shadows brown between. 


And silver white the river gleams, 
As if Diana, in her dreams 
Had dropt her silver bow 
Upon the meadows low. 


On such a tranquil night as this, 
She woke Endymion with a kiss, 
When, sleeping in the grove, 
He dreamed not of her love. 


Like Dian’s kiss, unasked, un- 
sought, 

Love gives 
bought ; 
Nor voice, nor sound betrays 

Its deep, impassioned gaze. 


itself, but is not 


It comes, —the beautiful, the free, 
The crown of all humanity, — 

Iu silence and alone 

To seek the elected one. 


It lifts the boughs, whose shadows 
deep 
Are Life’s oblivion,the soul’s sleep, 
And kisses the closed eyes 
Of him who slumbering lies. 


O weary hearts! 
eyes ! 
O drooping souls, whose destinies 


O slumbering 


Are fraught with fear and 
pain, 
Ye shall be loved again! 


No one is so accursed by fate, 
No one so utterly desolate, 
But some heart, though un. 
known, 
Responds unto his own. 


Responds,—as if with 
wings, 
An angel touched its quivering 
strings ; 
And whispers, in its song, 
‘Where hast thou stayed so 
iong?? 


unseen 


IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY 


No hay pajaros en los nidos de antafio. 
Spanish Proverb. 


THE sun is bright,—the air is 
clear, 
The darting swallows soar and 
sing, 
And from the stately elms I hear 
The bluebird prophesying Spring, 


So blue yon winding river flows, 
It seems an outlet from the sky, 
Where, waiting till the west wind 
blows, 
The freighted clouds at anchor 
lie. 


All things are new ;— the buds, the 
leaves, 
That gild the elm-tree’s nodding 
crest, 
And even the nest beneath the 
eaves ; — 
There are no birds in last year’s 
nest! 


All things rejoice in youth ance 
love, 
The fulness of their first deligh 
And learn from the soft heavens 
above 
The melting tenderness of night. 


TO THE RIVER CHARLES 19 


-——— 


Maiden, that read’st this simple 
rhyme, 

Enjoy thy youth, it will not 
stay ; 


Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, 


For oh, it is not always May! 


Enjoy the Spring of Love and 
Youth, 
To some good angel leave the 
rest; 
For Time will teach thee soon the 
truth, 
There are no birds in last year’s 
nest! 


THE RAINY DAY 


THE day is cold, and dark, and 
dreary ; 

It rains, and the wind is never 
weary; 

The vine still clings to the moulder- 
ing wall, 

But at every gust the dead leaves 
fall, 

And the day is dark, ana 

dreary. 


My life is cold, and dark, and 
dreary ; 

It rains, and the wind is never 
weary ; 

My thoughts still cling to the 
mouldering Past, 

But the hopes of youth fall thick 
in the blast, 

And the days are dark and 

dreary. 


Be still, sad heart! and cease re- 
pining; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still 
shining ; 
Thy fate is the common fate of 
all, 
Into each life some rain must 
fall, 
Some days must be dark and 
dreary. 





GOD’S-ACRE 


I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, 
which calls 
The burial-ground God’s-Acre! 
It is just; 
It consecrates each grave within 
its walls, 
And breathes a benison o’er the 
sleeping dust. 


God’s-Acre! Yes, that blessed 
hame imparts 
Comfort to those who in the 
grave have sown 
The seed that they had garnered 
in their hearts, 
Their bread of life, alas! no more 
their own. 


Into its furrows shall we all be cast, 
In the sure faith, that we shall 
rise again 
At the great harvest, when the 
archangel’s blast 
Shall winnow, like a fan, the 
chaff and grain. 


Then shall the good stand in im- 
mortal bloom, 
In the fair gardens of that second 
birth ; 
And each bright blossom mingle 
its perfume j 
With that of flowers, which 
never bloomed on earth. 


With thy rude ploughshare, Death, 
turn up the sod, 
And spread the furrow for the 
seed we sow; 
This is the field and Acre of our 
God, 
This is the place where human 
harvests grow. 


TO THE RIVER CHARLES 


RIVER! that in silence windest 
Through the meadows. bright 
and free. 


20 





Till at length thy rest thou findest 
In the bosom of the sea! 


Four long years of mingled feeling, 
Half in rest, and half in strife, 

I have seen thy waters stealing 
Ouward, like the stream of life. 


Thou hast taught me, Silent River! 
Many a lesson, deep and long; 
Thou hast been a generous giver ; 

I can give thee but a song. 


Oft in sadness and in illness, 
I have watched thy current 
glide, 
Till the beauty of its stillness 
Overflowed me, like a tide. 


And in better hours and brighter, 
When I saw thy waters gleam, 
I have felt my heart beat lighter, 
And leap onward with thy 
stream. 


Not for this alone I love thee, 
Nor because thy waves of blue 

From celestial seas above thee 
Take their own celestial hue. 


Where yon shadowy woodlands 
hide thee, 
And thy waters disappear, 
Friends I love have dwelt beside 
thee, 
And have made thy margin dear. 


More than this;—thy name re- 
minds me 
Of three friends, all true and 
tried ; 
And that name, like magic, binds 
me 
Closer, closer to thy side. 


Friends my soul with joy remem- 
bers! 
How like quivering flames they 
start, 
When I fan the living embers 
On the hearth-stone of my heart! 


BALLADS AND 


OTHER POEMS 


a 


’T is for this, thou Silent River! 
That my spirit leans to thee; 
Thou hast been a generous giver, 
Take this idle song from me. 


BLIND BARTIMEUS 


BLIND Bartimeus at the gates 


_Of Jericho in darkness waits ; 


He hears the crowd; —he hears a 
breath 

Say, ‘It is Christ of Nazareth !? 

And calls, in tones of agony, 

"Inaov, eAénady pe ! 

The thronging multitudes in. 
crease ; 

Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace! 

But still, above the noisy crowd, 

The beggar’s ery is shrill and 
loud; 

Until they say, ‘ He calleth thee !' 

Odpoer’ eyeipat, pwvet ae! 


Then saith the Christ, as silent 
stands 

The crowd, ‘ What wilt thou at my 
hands ?’ 

And he replies, ‘ Oh, give me light! 

Rabbi, restore the blind man’s 
sight.’ 

And Jesus answers, Traye* 

‘H awloris cov cécwké ae! 


Ye that have eyes, yet cannot 
see, 

In darkness and in misery, 

Recall those mighty Voices Three, 

"Ingod, eAénady we! 

Odpoet’ &yetpat, traye ! 

‘H wlotis gov céowkée oe! 


THE GOBLET OF LIFE 


FILLED is Life’s goblet to the 
brim; 

And though my eyes with tears 
are dim, 


MAIDENHOOD 2% 





I see its sparkling bubbles swim, 
And chant a melancholy hymn 
With solemn voice and slow. 


No purple flowers, —no garlands 
green, 

Conceal the goblet’s shade or 
sheen, 

Nor maddening draughts of Hip- 
pocrene, 

Like gleams of sunshine, flash be- 
tween 

Thick leaves of mistletoe. 


This goblet, wrought with curious 
art, 
Is filled with waters, that upstart, 
When the deep fountains of the 
heart, 
By strong convulsions rent apart, 
Are running all to waste. 


And as it mantling passes round, 
With fennel is it wreathed and 
crowned, 
Whose seed and foliage sun-im- 
. ‘browned 
Are in its waters steeped and 
' drowned, 
And give a bitter taste. 


Above the lowly plants it towers, 
The fennel, with its yellow flowers, 
And in an earlier age than ours 
Was gifted with the wondrous 
powers, 
Lost vision to restore. 


It gave new strength, and fearless 
mood; 
And gladiators, fierce and rude, 
Mingled it in their daily food; 
And he who battled and subdued, 
A wreath of fennel wore. 


Then in Life’s goblet freely press 
The leaves that give it bitterness, 
Nor prize the colored waters less, 
For in thy darkness and distress 


And he who has not learned to 
know 
How false its sparkling bubbles 
show, 
How bitter are the drops of woe, 
With which its brim may overflow, 
He has not learned to live. 


The prayer of Ajax was for light; 
Through all that dark and desper- 
ate fight, 
The blackness of that noonday 
night, 
He asked but the return of sight, 
To see his foeman’s face. 


Let our unceasing, earnest prayer 
Be, too, for light, — for strength to 
bear 
Our portion of the weight of care, 
That crushes into dumb despair 
One half the human race. 


O suffering, sad humanity! 

O ye afflicted ones, who lie 

Steeped to the lips in misery, 

Longing, and yet afraid to die, 
Patient, though sorely tried! 


I pledge you in this cup of grief, 
Where floats the fennel’s bitter 
leaf ! 
The Battle of our Life is brief, 
The alarm,—the struggle, — the 
relief, 
Then sleep we side by side. 


MAIDENHOOD 


When writing to his father of the ap- 
pearance of his new volume of poems, 
Mr. Longfellow said: ‘I think the last 
two pieces the best, — perhaps as good 
as anything I have written.’ These 
pieces were the following and £xcel, 
sior. 


MAIDEN! with the meek, brown 
eyes, 


New light and strength they | In whose orbs a-shadow lies 


give! 


Like the dusk in evening skies! 


22 


_— 


Thou whose locks outshine the 
sun, 

Golden tresses, wreathed in one, 

As the braided streamlets run! 


Standing, with reluctant feet, 
Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet! 


Gazing, with a timid glance, 
On the brooklet’s swift advance, 
On the river’s broad expanse! 


Deep and still, that gliding stream 

Beautiful to thee must seem, 

As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indeci- 
sion, 

When bright angels in thy vision 

Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 


Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
As the dove, with startled eye, 
Sees the falcon’s shadow fly ? 


Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
That our ears perceive no more, 
Deafened by the cataract’s roar? 


Oh, thou child of many prayers! 

Life hath quicksands, — Life hath 
snares ! 

Care and age come unawares! 


Like the swell of some sweet 
tune, 

Morning rises into noon, 

May glides onward into June. 


Childhood is the bough, where 


slumbered 

Birds and blossoms many-num- 
bered ;— 

Age, that bough with snows en- 
cumbered. 


Gather, then, each flower that 
grows, 

When the young heart overflows, 

To embalm that tent of snows. 


BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS 





Bear a lily in thy hand; 
Gates of brass cannot withstand 
One touch of that magic wand. 


Bear through sorrow, wrong, ang 
ruth, 

In thy heart the dew of youth, 

On thy lips the smile of truth. 


Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal 


| Into wounds that cannot heal, 


Even as sleep our eyes doth seal: 
And that smile, like sunshine, darv 
Into many a sunless heart, 

For a smile of God thou art. 


EXCELSIOR 


THE shades of night were falling 


fast, 
‘| As through an Alpine village 
passed 
A youth, who bore, ’mid snow and 
ice, 
A banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 


His brow was sad; his eye be- 
neath, 

Flashed like a falchion from its 
sheath, 

And like a silver clarion rung 

The accents of that unknown 
tongue, 

Excelsior! 


In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and 
bright; 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 
And from his lips escaped a groan, 
Excelsior! 


‘Try not the Pass!’ the old man 


said ; 

‘Dark lowers the tempest over- 
head, 

The roaring torrent is deep and 
wide!’ 


THE SLAVE’S DREAM 





23 


—— 





And loud that clarion voice re- 
plied, 
Excelsior! 


‘Oh stay,’ the maiden said, ‘and 
rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast !’ 
A tear stood in his bright blue 
eye, 
But still he answered, with a sigh, 
Excelsior ! 


*Beware the pine-tree’s withered 
branch! 
Beware the awful avalanche !? 
This was the peasant’s last Good- 
night, 
A voice replied, far up the height, 
Excelsior ! 


POEMS ON 


TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING 


THE pages of thy book I read, 
And as I closed each one, 

My heart, responding, ever said, 
‘Servant of God! well done!’ 


Well done! Thy words are great 
and bold; 
At times they seem to me, 
Like Luther’s, in the days of old, 
Half-battles for the free. 


Go on, until this land revokes 
The old and chartered Lie, 
The feudal curse, whose whips 
and yokes 
Insult humanity. 


A voice is ever at thy side 
Speaking in tones of might, 

Like the prophetic voice, that cried 
To John in Patmos, ‘ Write!’ 


Write! and tell outthis bloody tale; 
Record this dire eclipse, 





At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled 
air, 
Excelsior ! 


A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
Half-buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange de- 
vice, 
Excelsior! 


There in the twilight cold and gray, 

Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 

And from the sky, serene and far, 

A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior ! 


SLAVERY 


This Day of Wrath, this Endless 
Wail, 
This dread Apocalypse! 


THE SLAVE’S DREAM 


BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay, 
His sickle in his hand; 
His breast was bare, his matted 
hair 
Was buried in the sand. 
Again, in the mist and shadow of 
sleep, 
He saw his Native Land. 


Wide through the landscape of his 
dreams 
The lordly Niger flowed; 
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain 
Once more a king he strode; 
And heard the tinkling caravans 
Descend the mountain road. 


He saw once more his dark-eyed 
queen 
Among her children stand; 


24 


-POEMS ON SLAVERY 


eee ny 


They clasped his neck, they kissed 
his cheeks, 
They held him by the hand! — 
A tear burst from the sleeper’s lids 
And fell into the sand. 


And then at furious speed he rode 
Along the Niger’s bank; 
His bridle-reins were golden 
chains, 
And, with a martial clank, 
At each leap he could feel his scab- 
bard of steel 
Smiting his stallion’s flank. 


Before him, like a blood-red flag, 
The bright flamingoes flew ; 
From morn till night he followed 
their flight, 
O’er plains where the tamarind 
grew, 
Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, 
And the ocean rose to view. 


At night he heard the lion roar, 
And the hyena scream, 
And the river-horse, as he crushed 
the reeds 
Beside some hidden stream ; 
And it passed, like a glorious roll 
of drums, 
Through the triumph of his 
dream. 


The forests, with their myriad 
tongues, 
Shouted of liberty ; 
And the Blast of the Desert cried 
aloud, 
With a voice so wild and free, 
That he started in his sleep and 
smiled 
At their tempestuous glee. 


He did not feel the driver’s whip, 
Nor the burning heat of day; 
For Death had illumined the Land 
of Sleep, 
And his lifeless body lay 
A worn-out fetter, that the soul 
Had broken and thrown away! 


THE GOOD PART 


THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN 
AWAY 


SHE dwells by Great Kenhawa’s 
side, 
In valleys green and cool; 
And all her hope and all her 
pride 
Are in the village school. 


Her soul, like the transparent air 
That robes the hills above, 
Though not of earth, encircles 
there 
All things with arms of love. 


And thus she walks among her 
girls 
With praise and mild rebukes; 
Subduing e’en rude village churls 
By her angelic looks. 


She reads to them at eventide 
Of One who came to save; 

To cast the captive’s chains aside 
And liberate the slave. 


And oft the blessed time fore. 
tells 
When all men shall be free; 
And musical, as silver bells, 
Their falling chains shall be. 


And following her beloved Lord, 
In decent poverty, 
She makes her life one sweet re 
cord 
And deed of charity. 


For she was rich, and gave up all 
To break the iron bands 

Of those who waited in her hall, 
And labored in her lands. 


Long since beyond the Southern 
Sea 
Their outbound sails have sped, 
While she, in meek humility, 
Now earns her daily bread. 


THE WITNESSES 


45 





It is their prayers, which never 
cease, 
That clothe her with such grace: 
Their blessing is the light of peace 
That shines upon her face. 


THE SLAVE IN THE DIS- 
MAL SWAMP 


In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp 
The hunted Negro lay; 
He saw the fire of the midnight 
camp, 
And heard at times a horse’s tramp 
And a bloodhound’s distant bay. 


Where will-o’-the-wisps and glow- 
worms shine, 
Yn bulrush and in brake; 
Where waving mosses shroud the 
pine, 
And the cedar grows, and the 
poisonous vine 
Is spotted like the snake ; 


Where hardly a human foot could 
pass, 
Or a human heart would dare, 
On the quaking turf of the green 
morass 
He crouched in the rank and tan- 
gled grass, 
Like a wild beast in his lair. 


_ A poor old slave, infirm and lame; 
Great scars deformed his face; 
On his forehead he bore the brand 

of shame, 
And the rags, that hid his mangled 
frame, 
Were the livery of disgrace. 


All things above were bright and 

fair, 
All things were glad and free; 

Lithe squirrels darted here and 
there, 

And wild birds filled the echoing 
air 

’ With songs of Liberty ! 


On him alone was the doom of 
pain, 

From the morning of his birth; 
On him alone the curse of Cain 
Fell, like a flail on the garnered 

grain, 

And struck him to the earth! 


THE SLAVE SINGING AT 
MIDNIGHT 


Loup he sang the psalm of David! 
He, a Negro and enslavéd, 

Sang of Israel’s victory, 

Sang of Zion, bright and free. 


In that hour, when night is calm- 
est, 

Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, 

In a voice so sweet and clear 

That I could not choose but hear, 


Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, 

Such as reached the swart Kgyp- 
tians, 

When upon the Red Sea coast 

Perished Pharaoh and his host. 


And the voice of his devotion 

Filled my soul with strange emo- 
tion; 

For its tones by turns were glad, 

Sweetly solemn, wildly sad. 


Paul and Silas, in their prison, 

Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen. 

And an earthquake’s arm of might 

Broke their dungeon- gates at 
night. 


But, alas! what holy angel 

Brings the Slave this glad evan- 
gel? 

And what earthquake’s arm of 
might 

Breaks his dungeon-gates at night? 


THE WITNESSES 


In Ocean’s wide domains, 
Half buried in the sands, 


26 


POEMS ON SLAVERY 





Like skeletons in chains, 
With shackled feet and hands. 


Beyond the fall of dews, 
Deeper than plummet lies, 
Float ships, with all their crews, 
No more to sink nor rise. 


There the black Slave-ship swims, 
Freighted with human forms, 

Whose fettered, fleshless limbs 
Are not the sport of storms. 


These are the bones of Slaves; 
They gleam from the abyss; 
They cry, from yawning waves, 

‘We are the Witnesses !? 


Within Earth’s wide domains 
Are markets for men’s lives ; 
Their necks are galled with chains, 
Their Wrists are cramped with 
gyves. 


Dead bodies, that the kite 
In deserts makes its prey; 
Murders, that with affright 
Scare school-boys from their 
play! 


All evil thoughts and deeds; 
Anger, and lust, and pride; 

The foulest, rankest weeds, 
That choke Life’s groaning tide! 


These are the woes of Slaves; 
They glare from the abyss; 

They cry, from unknown graves, 
‘We are the Witnesses !’ 


THE QUADROON Q@IRL 


THE Slaver iv the broad lagoon 
Lay moored with idle sail ; 
He waited for the rising moon, 

And for the evening gale. 


Under the shore his boat was tied, 
And all her listless crew 

Watched the gray alligator slide 
Into the still bayou. 


Odors of orange-flowers, and spice, 
Reached them from time ta 
time, 
Like airs that breathe from Para- 
dise 
Upon a world of crime. 


The Planter, under his roof of 
thatch, 
Smoked thoughtfully and slow; 


The Slaver’s thumb was on the .- 


latch, 
He seemed in haste to go. 


He said, ‘ My ship at anchor rides 
In yonder broad lagoon; 

I only wait the evening tides, 
And the rising of the moon.’ 


Before them, with her face up. 
raised, 
In timid attitude, 
Like one half curious, half amazed, 
A Quadroon maiden stood. 


Her eyes were large, and full of 
light, 
Her arms and neck were bare; 
No garment she wore save a kirtle 
bright, 
And her own long, raven hair. 


And on her lips there played a 
smile 
As holy, meek, and faint, 
As lights in some cathedral aisle 
The features of a saint. 


‘The soil is barren,— the farm is 
old,’ 
The thoughtful planter said ; 
Then looked upon the Slaver’s 
gold, 
And then upon the maid. 


His heart. within him was at 
strife 
With such accursed gains: 
For he knew whose passions gave 
her life, 
Whose blood ran in her veins. 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 27 


But the voice of nature was too | Upon the pillars of the temple 


weak ; 
He took the glittering gold! 
Then pale as death grew the 
maiden’s cheek, 
Her hands as icy cold. 


The Slaver led her from the door, 
He led her by the hana, 

To be his slave and paramour 
In a Strange and distant land! 


THE WARNING 


BEWARE! The Israelite of old, 
who tore 
The lion in his path,— when, 
poor and blind, 
He saw the blessed light of heaven 
no more, 
Shorn of his noble strength and 
forced to grind 
In prison, and at last led forth to 
be 
A pander to Philistine revelry, — 


laid 
His desperate hands, and in its 
overthrow 
Destroyed himself, and with him 
those who made 
A cruel mockery of his sightless 
woe; 
The poor, blind Slave, the scoff 
and jest of all, 
Expired, and thousands perished 
in the fall! 


There is a poor, blind Samson in 
this land, 
Shorn of his strength and bound 
in bonds of steel, 
Who may, in some grim revel, 
raise his hand, 
And shake the pillars of this 
Commonweal, 
Till the vast Temple of our liber- 
ties 
A shapeless mass of wreck and 
rubbish lies. 


hii eS eeN TSS BUD NED 


DRAMATIS PERSONZE 


VICTORIAN } Students of Alcala. 

Hypouiro 

THE CouNT oF LARA \ Gentlemen of 

Don CARLos Madrid. 

THE ARCHBISHOP OF TOLEDO. 

A CARDINAL. 

BELTRAN CruzAbo . Count of the Gyp- 
: sies. 

BArtrotomE RomAn. A young Gypsy. 

THE PADRE CURA OF GUADARRAMA. 


PEDRO CRESPO . Alcalde. 
PANCHO . Alguacil. 
FRANCISCO Lara’ s Servant. 
CHISPA . ’ Victorian’s Servant. 
BALTASAR. . Innkeeper. 
Preciosa . A Gypsy Girl. 
ANGELICA . A poor Girl. 
MARTINA . "The ‘Padre Cura’s Niece. 
DoLORES . Preciosa’s Maid, 


Gypsies, Musicians, etc. 


ACT I 


SCENE I. — The COUNT OF LARA’S 


chambers. Night. The COUNT 
in his dressing-gown, smoking 
and conversing with DON 
CARLOS. 


Lara. You were not at the play 
to-night, Don Carlos; 
How happened it ? 
Don C. IT had engagements else- 
where. 
Pray who was there ? 
Lara. Why, all the town and 
court. 
The house was crowded; and the 
busy fans 
Among the gayly dressed and per 
fumed ladies 


25 


Fluttered like butterflies among 
the flowers. 
There was the Countess of Medina 
Celi: 
The Goblin Lady with her Phan- 
tom Lover, 
Her Lindo Don Diego; Dofia Sol, 
And Dofia Serafina, and her 
cousins. 
Don C. What was the play ? 
Lara. It was a dull affair ; 
One of those comedies in which 
you see, 
As Lope says, the history of the 
world 
Brought down from Genesis to the 
day of Judgment. 
There were three duels fought in 
the first act, 
Three gentlemen receiving deadly 
wounds, 
Laying their hands upon their 
hearts, and saying, 
‘Oh, I am dead!’ a lover in a 
closet, 
Anold hidalgo, and a gay Don 
Juan, 
A Dofia Inez with a.black mantilla, 
Followed at twilight by an un- 
known lover, 
Who looks intently where he 
knows she is not! 
Don C. Of course, the Preciosa 
danced to-night? 
Lara. And never better. 
footstep fell 
As lightly as a sunbeam on the 
water. 
I think the girl extremely beauti- 
ful. 
Don C. Almost beyond the privi- 
lege of woman! 
I saw her in the Prado yesterday. 
Her step was royal, — queen-like, 
-—and her face 
As beautiful as a saint’s in Para- 
dise. 
Lara. May not a saint fall from 
her Paradise, 
And be no more a saint ? 
Don Cy 


Every 


Why do you ask? 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 





Lara. Because I have heard it 
said this angel fell, 
And though she is a virgin out. 
wardly, 
Within she is a sinner; like those 
panels 
Of doors and altar-pieces the old 
monks 
Painted in convents, with the Vir- 
gin Mary 
On the outside, and on the inside 
Venus! 
Don C. You do her wrong; in 
deed, you do her wrong! 
is as virtuous as she is 
fair. 
Lara. How credulous you are! 
Why, look you, friend, 
There’s not a virtuous woman in 
Madrid, 

In this whole city! And would 
you persuade me 

That a mere dancing-girl, who 
shows herself, 

Nightly, half naked, on the stage, 
for money, 

And with voluptuous motions fires 
the blood 

Of inconsiderate youth, is to be 


She 


held 
A model for her virtue ? 
Don C. You forget 
She is a Gypsy girl. 
Lara. And therefore won 
The easier. 
Don C. Nay, not to be won at 
all! 
The only virtue that a Gypsy 
prizes 
Is chastity. That is-her only vir- 
tue. 
Dearer than life she holds it. I 
remember 
A Gypsy woman, a vile, shameless 
bawd, 


Whose craft was to betray the 
young and fair ; 

And yet this woman was above all 
bribes. 

And when a noble lord, touched 
by her beauty, 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 


29 





The wild and wizard beauty of her 
race, 

Offered her gold to be what she 
made others, 

She turned upon him, with a look 
of scorn, 

And smote him in the face! 


Lara, And does that prove 
That Preciosa is above suspi- 
cion? 


Don C. It proves a nobleman 
may be repulsed 
When he thinks conquest easy. I 
believe 
That woman, in her deepest de- 
gradation, 
Holds something sacred, some- 
thing undefiled, 
Some pledge and keepsake of her 
higher nature, 
And, like the diamond in the dark, 
retains 
Some quenchless gleam of the 
celestial light! 
Lara. Yet Preciosa would have 
taken the gold. 
Don C. (rising). I do not think 
So. 
Lara. Tam sure of it. 
But why this haste? Stay yet a 
little longer, 
And fight the battles of your Dul- 
cinea. 
Don C. °T is late. I must be- 
gone, for if I stay 
You will not be persuaded. 
Lara. Yes; persuade me. 
Don C. No one so deaf as he who 
will not hear! 
Lara. No one so blind as he who 
will not see! 
Don C. And so good night. I 
wish you pleasant dreams, 
And greater faith in woman. [Fwit. 
Lara. Greater faith! 
1 have the greatest faith; for I 
believe 
Victorian is her lover. I believe 
That I shall be to-morrow; and 
thereafter 
Another, and another. and another, 


Chasing each other through her 
zodiac, 
As Taurus chases Aries. 


(Enter FRANCISCO with a casket.} 
Well, Francisco, 
What speed with Preciosa? 
Fran. None, my lord. 
She sends your jewels back, and 
bids me tell you 
She is not to be purchased by your 
gold. 
Lara. Then I will try some 
other way to win her. 
Pray, dost thou know Victorian ? 
Fran. Yes, my lord; 
I saw him at the jeweller’s to-day. 
Lara. What was he doing there ? 
Fran. I saw him buy 
A golden ring, that had a ruby in 
it. 
Lara. Was there another like it? 
Fran, One so like it 
I could not choose between them. 
Lara. It is well. 
To-morrow morning bring that 
ring to me. 
Do not forget. 
my bed. 


Now light me to 
[Exeunt. 


SCENE II. — 4 street in Madrid. 
Enter CHISPA, followed by mu- 
sicians, with a bagpipe, guitars, 
and other instruments. 

Chispa. Abernuncio Satanas! 
and a plague on all lovers who 


ramble about at night drinking the 


elements, instead of sleeping quiet- 
ly in their beds. Every dead man 
to his cemetery, say I; and every 
friar to his monastery. Now, 
here’s my master, Victorian, yes- 
terday a cow-keeper, and to-day a 
gentleman; yesterday a student, 
and to-day a lover; and I inust 
be up later than the nightingale, 
for as the abbot sings so must the 
sacristan respond. God grant he 
may soon be married, for ther 
shall all this serenading cease 
Ay, marry! marry! marry! Mo 


30 


—_—, 


ther, what does marry mean? It 
means to spin, to bear children, 
and to weep, my daughter! And, 
of a truth, there is something more 
in matrimony than the wedding- 
ring. (Yo the musicians.) And 
now, gentlemen, Pax vobiscum! as 
the ass said to the cabbages. Pray, 
walk this way; and don’t hang 
down your heads. It is no dis- 
grace to have an old father and a 
ragged shirt. Now, look you, you 
are gentlemen who lead the life of 
crickets; you enjoy hunger by day 
and noise by night. Yet, I beseech 
you, for this once be not loud, but 
pathetic; for it is a serenade to a 
damsel in bed, and not to the Man 
in the Moon. Your object is not 
to arouse and terrify, but to soothe 
and bring lulling dreams. There- 
fore, each shall not play upon his 
instrument as if it were the only 
one in the universe, but gently, and 
with a certain modesty, according 
with the others. Pray, how may I 
call thy name, friend? 

First Mus. Geronimo Gil, at your 
service. 

Chispa. Every tub smells of the 
winethatisinit. Pray, Geronimo, 
is not Saturday an unpleasant day 
with thee? 

First Mus. Why so? 

Chispa. Because I have heard it 
said that Saturday is an unpleasant 
day with those who have but one 
shirt. Moreover, I have seen thee 
at the tavern, and if thou canst run 
as fast as thou canst drink, [should 
like to hunt hares with thee. What 
instrument is that ? 

First Mus. An Aragonese bag- 
pipe. 

Chispa. Pray, art thou related to 
the bagpiper of Bujalance, who 
asked a maravedi for playing, and 
ten for leaving off? 

First Mus. No, your honor. 

Chispa. I am glad of it. What 
dther instruments have we? 





THE SPANISH "STUDENT 





Second and Third Musicians, 
We play the bandurria. 

Chispa. A pleasing instrument. 
And thou? 

Fourth Mus. The fife. 

Chispa. I like it; it has a cheer. 
ful, soul-stirring sound, that soars 
up to my lady’s window like the 
song of a swallow. And you 
others? 

Other Mus. We are the singers, 
please your honor. 

Chispa. You are too many. Dv 
you think we are going to sing 
mass in the cathedral of Cordova ? 
Four men can make but little use 
of one shoe, and I see not how you 
can all sing in one song. But fol- 
low me along the garden wall 
That is the way my master climbs 
to the lady’s window. It is by the 
Vicar’s skirts that the Devil climbs 
into the belfry. Come, follow me, 
and make no noise. [Hxeunt. 


SCENE III.— PRECIOSA’S cham- 
ver. She stands at the open 
window. 


Prec. How slowly through the 

lilac-scented air 

Descends the tranquil moon! 
Like thistle-down 

The vapory clouds float in the 
peaceful sky ; 

And sweetly from yon hollow 
vaults of shade 

The nightingales breathe out their 
souls in song. 

And hark! what songs of love 
what soullike sounds, 

Answer them from below! 


SERENADE. 


Stars of the summer night ! 
Far in yon azure deeps, 

Hide, hide your golden light! 
She sleeps! 

My lady sleeps ! 
Sleeps ! 


Moon of the summer night ! 
Far down yon western steeps, 


THE SPANISH STUDENT ar 


ee 


Sink, sink in silver light! 
She sleeps ! 

My lady sleeps! 
Sleeps ! 


Wind of the summer night ! 

Where yonder woodbine creeps, 
Fold, fold thy pinions light! 

She sleeps! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 


Dreams of the summer night! 
Tell her, her lover keeps 

Watch! while in slumbers light 
She sleeps ! 

My lady sleeps! 
Sleeps! 


{Enter VICTORIAN by the balcony.) 


Vict. Poor little dove! Thou 
tremblest like a leaf! 
Prec. I am so frightened! Tis 


for thee I tremble! 
I hate to have thee climb that wall 
by night! 
Did no one see thee ? 
Vict. None, my love, but thou. 
Prec. ’Tis very dangerous; and 
when thou art gone 
I chide myself for letting thee 
come here 
Thus stealthily by night. Where 
hast thou been ? 
Since yesterday I have no news 
from thee. 
, Vict. Since yesterday I have 
been in Alcala. 
Erelong the time will come, sweet 
Preciosa, 
When that dull distance shall no 
more divide us ; 
And Ino more shall seale thy wall 
by night 
To steal a kiss from thee, as I do 
now. 
Prec. An honest thief, to steal 
but what thou givest. 
Vict. And we shall sit together 
unmolested, 
And words of true love pass from 
tongue to tongue, 
As singing birds from one bough 
to another. 





Prec. That were a life to make 
time envious! 
I knew that thou wouldst come to 
me to-night. 
I saw thee at the play. 
Vict. Sweet child of air! 
Never did I behold thee so at- 
tired 
And garmented in beauty as to- 
night ! 
What hast thou done to make thee 
look so fair? 
Prec. Am I not always fair? 
Vict. Ay, and so fais 
That I am jealous of all eyes that 
see thee, 
And wish that they were blind. 
Prec. I heed them not; 
When thou art present, I see none 
but thee! 
Vict. There’s nothing fair nor 
beautiful, but takes 
Something from thee, that makes 
it beautiful. 
Prec. And yet thou leavest me 
for those dusty books. 
Vict. Thou comest between me 
and those books too often! 
I see thy face in everything I 
seei 
The paintings in the chapel wear 
thy looks, 
The canticles are changed to sara- 
bands, 
And with the learned doctors of 
the schools 
I see thee dance cachuchas. 
rec: In good sooth, 
TI dance with learned doctors of the 
schools 
To-morrow morning. 
Vict. And with whom, I pray? 
Prec. A grave and reverend 
Cardinal, and his Grace 
The Archbishop of Toledo. 


Vict. What mad jest 
Ts this ? 
Prec. It is no jest; indeed it is 
not. 


Vict. Prithee, explain thyself. 
Prec. Why. simply thus. 


32 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 





Thou knowest the Pope has sent 
here into Spain 
To put a stop to dances on the 
Stage. 
Vict. I have heard it whispered. 
Prec. Now the Cardinal, 
Who for this purpose comes, would 
fain behold 
With his own eyes these dances; 
and the Archbishop 
Has sent for me — 
Vict. That thou mayest dance 
before them! 


Now viva la cachucha! It will 
breathe 

The fire of youth into these gray 
old men! 


°T will be thy proudest conquest! 
Prec. Saving one. 
And yet I fear these dances will 
be stopped, 
And Preciosa be once more a beg- 
gar. 
Vict. The sweetest beggar that 
e’er asked for alms; 
With such beseeching eyes, that 
when I saw thee 
ai gave my heart away! - 
Pree. Dost thou remember 
When first we met? 
Vict. It was at Cordova, 
In the cathedral garden. Thou 
wast sitting 
Under the orange trees, beside a 
fountain. 
Prec. "IT was Easter Sunday. 
The full-blossomed trees 


Filled all the air with fragrance 


and with joy. 

The priests were singing, and the 
organ sounded, 

And then anon the great cathedral 
bell. 

It was the elevation of the Host. 

We both of us fell down upon our 
knees, 

Under the orange boughs, and 
prayed together. 

I never had been happy till that 
moment. 

Vict. Thou blessed angel! 


Prec. And when thou wast gone 


I felt an aching here. I did not 
speak 

To any one that day. But from 
that day 


Bartolomé grew hateful unto me. 
Vict. Remember him no more. 
Let not his shadow 
Come between thee and me. Sweet 
Preciosa ! 
I loved thee even then, though. I 
was silent! 
Prec. I thought I ne’er should 
see thy face again. 
Thy farewell had a sound of sor 
row in it. 
Vict. That was the first sound 
in the song of love! 
Searce more than silence is, and 
yet a sound. 
Hands of invisible spirits touch 
the strings 
Of that mysterious instrument, the 
soul, 
And play the prelude of our fate. 
We hear 
The voice prophetic, and are not 
alone. 
Prec. That is my faith. Dost 
thou believe these warnings ? 
Vict. So far as this. Our feel- . 
ings and our thoughts 
Tend ever on, and rest not in the 
Presettt. 
As drops of rain fall into some 
dark well, 
And from below comes a scarce 
audible sound, 
So fall our thoughts into the dark 
Hereafter, 
And their mysterious echo reaches 
us. 
Prec. I have felt it so, but found 
no words to say it! 

I cannot reason; I can oily feel! 
But thou hast language for all 
thoughts and feelings. 

Thou art a scholar; and some 

times I think 
We cannot walk together in this 
world! 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 


33 





The distance that divides us is too 
great! 

Henceforth thy pathway 
among the stars; 

I must not hold thee back. 

Vict. Thou little sceptic! 

Dost thou still doubt? What I 
most prize in woman 

Is her affections, not her intellect ! 

The intellect is finite; but the af- 
fections ~* 

Are infinite, and cannot be ex- 
hausted. 

Compare me with the great men 
of the earth; 

WhatamI? Why,a pygmy among 
giants! 

But if thou lovest,—mark me! I 
say lovest, — 

The greatest of thy sex excels thee 
not! 

The world of the affections is thy 
world, 

Not that of man’s ambition. 
thai stillness 

Which most becomes a woman, 
calm and holy, 

Thou sittest by the fireside of the 
heart, 
Feeding its flame. 

fire 
Is pure. It cannot change nor 
hide its nature, 
But burns as brightly in a Gypsy 
camp 
As in a palace hall, 
vineed ? 
Prec. Yes, that I love thee, as 
the good love heaven; 
But not that I am worthy of that 
heaven. 
How shall I more deserve it ? 
Vict: Loving more. 
Prec. I cannot love thee more; 
my heart is full. 
Vict. Then let it overflow, and I 
will drink it, 
As in the summer-time the thirsty 
sands 
Drink the swift waters of the 
Manzanares, 
And still do thirst for more. 


lies 


In 


The element of 


Art thou con- 


A Watchman (in the street). 
Ave Maria 


Purissima! 
serene! 

Vict. Hear’st thou that cry? 

Pee: It is a hateful sound, 

To scare thee from me! 
Viet. As the hunter’s horn 
Doth scare the timid stag, or bark 
of hounds 
The moor-fowl from his mate. 

Prec: Pray, do not go! 

Vict. I must away to Alcala to- 
night. 

Think of me when I am away. 

Pree. Fear not! 

I have no thoughts that do not 
think of thee. 

Vict. (giving her a ring). And 
to remind thee of my love, 
take this; 

A serpent, emblem of Eternity; 
A ruby, —Ssay,a drop of my heart’s 
blood. 

Prec. It is an ancient saying, 
that the ruby 

Brings gladness to the wearer, and 
preserves 

The heart pure, and, if laid be- 
neath the pillow, 

Drives away evil dreams. 
then, alas! 

It was a serpent tempted Eve to 
sin. 

Vict. What convent of bare- 
footed Carmelites 

Taught thee so much theology ? 

Prec. (laying her hand upon his 

mouth). Hush! hush! 
Good night! and may all holy an- 
gels guard thee! 

Vict. Good night! good night! 
Thou art my guardian an- 
gel! 

I have no other saint than thou to 
pray to! 

(He descends by the balcony.) 

Prec. Take care, and do not 
hurt thee. Art thou safe? 

Vict. (from the garden). Safe 
as my love for thee! But 
art thou safe 2? 


‘Tis midnight and 


But 


34 


. 


Others can climb a balcony by 
moonlight 

As well as I. Pray shut thy win- 
dow close ; 

I am jealous of the perfumed air 
of night 

That from this garden climbs to 
kiss thy lips. 

Prec. (throwing down her hand- 
kerchief). Thou silly child! 
Take this to blind thine eyes. 

It is my benison! 

Vict. And brings to me 

Sweet fragrance from thy lips, as 
the soft wind 

Wafts to the out-bound mariner 
the breath 

Of the beloved land he leaves be- 
hind. 

Prec. Make not thy voyage 
long. 

Vict. To-morrow night 

Shall see me safe returned. Thou 
art the star 

To guide me to an anchorage. 
Good night! 

My beauteous star! 
love, good night! 

Prec. Good night! 

Watchman (at a distance). Ave 
Maria Purissima! 


My star of 


SCENE LYV.— An inn on the road 
to Alealad. BALTASAR asleep on 
abench. Enter CHISPA. 


Chispa. And here we are, half- 
way to Alcala, between cocks and 
midnight. Body o’? me! what an 
inn this is! The lights out, and 
the landlordasleep. Hola! ancient 
Baltasar ! 

Bal. (waking). Here I am. 

Chispa. Yes, there you are, like 
a one-eyed Alcalde in a town with- 
out inhabitants. Bring alight, and 
let me have supper. 

Bal. Where is your master? 

Chispa. Do not trouble yourself 
about him. We have stopped a 
moment to breathe our horses; 
and if he chooses to walk up and 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 





down in the open air, looking inte 
the sky as one who hears it rain, 
that does not satisfy my hunger, 


you know. But be quick, for Iam 
ina hurry,and every man stretches 
his legs according to the length 
of his coverlet. What have we 
here? 

Bal. (setting a light on the table). 

Stewed rabbit. 

Chispa (eating). Conscience of 
Portalegre! Stewed kitten, you 
mean! 

Bal. And a pitcher of Pedro 
Ximenes, with a roasted pear in 
it. 

Chispa (drinking). Ancient Bal- 
tasar, amigo! You know how ta 
ery wine and Sell vinegar. I tell 
you this is nothing but Vinto Tinto 
of La Mancha, with a tang of the 
swine-skin. 

Bal. I swear to you by Saint 
Simon and Judas, it is all as I 
Say. 

Chispa. And I swear to you by 
Saint Peter and Saint Paul, that 
it is no such thing. Moreover, 
your supper is like the hidalgo’s 
dinner, very little meat and a great 
deal of tablecloth. 

Bal. Hat ha! ha! 

Chispa. And more noise than 
nuts. 

Bal. Ha! ha! ha! You must 
have your joke, Master Chispa. 
But shall I not ask Don Victorian 
In, to take a draught of the Pedro 
Ximenes ? 

Chispa, No; you might as weil 
say, ‘ Don’t-you-want-some?’ to a 
dead man. 

Bal. Why does he go so often to 
Madrid ? 

Chispa. For the same reason 
that he eats no supper. He is in 
love. Were you ever in love, Bal- 
tasar? : 

Bal. I was never out of it, good 
Chispa. It has been the torment 
of my life. 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 


35 





Chispa. What! are you on fire, 
too, old haystack? Why, we shall 
never be able to put you out. 

Vict. (without). Chispa! 

Chispa. Go to bed, Pero Grullo, 
for the cocks are crowing. 

Vict. Ea! Chispa! Chispa! 


Chispa. Ea! Sefior. Come with 
me, ancient Baltasar, and bring 
water for the horses. I will pay 
for the supper to-morrow. [Zxewnt. 


SCENE YV.— VICTORIAN’S cham- 
bers at Alcaid. HYPOLITO 
asleep in an arm-chair. He 
awakes slowly. 


Hyp. YT must have been asleep! 
ay, sound asleep! 
_And it was all a dream. O sleep, 
sweet sleep! 
Whatever form thou takest, thou 


art fair, 

Holding unto our lips thy goblet 
filled 

Out of Oblivion’s well, a healing 
draught! 


The candles have burned low; it 

must be late. 

Where can Victorian be? Like 

Fray Carrillo, 

‘The only place in which one can- 

not find him 

Is his own cell. Here’s his guitar, 

that seldom 

Feels the caresses of its master’s 

hand. 

Open thy silent lips, sweet instru- 

ment! 

And make dull midnight merry 

with a song. 
(He plays and sings.) 
Padre Francisco ! 
Padre Francisco! 

What do you want of Padre Francisco ? 
Here is a pretty young maiden 
Who wants to confess her sins! 

Open the door and let her come in, 

3 will shrive her of every sin. 


(Enter VICTORIAN.) 


Viet. Padre Hypolito! 
Hypolito! 


Padre 


Hyp. What do you want of Padre 
Hypolito? 
Vict. Come, shrive me straight; 
for, if love be asin, 
I am the greatest sinner that doth 
live. 
T will confess the sweetest of all 
crimes, 
A maiden wooed and won. 
Hyp. The same old tale 
Of the old woman in the chimney- 
corner, 
Who, while the pot boils, says, 
‘Come here, my child; 
I ‘ll tell thee a story of my wedding- 
day.’ 
Vict. Nay, listen, for my heart 
is full; so full 
That I must speak. 
Hyp. Alas! that heart of thine 
Is like a scene in the old play; the 


curtain 

Rises to solemn music, and lo! 
enter 

The eleven thousand virgins of 
Cologne! 


Vict. Nay, like the Sibyl’s vol- 
umes, thou shouldst say ; 
Those that remained, after the six 
were burned, 
Being held more precious than the 
nine together. 
But listen to my tale. 
remember 
The Gypsy girl we saw at Cordova 
Dance the Romalis in the market- 
place? 
Hyp. Thou meanest Preciosa. 
Vict. Ay, the same. 
Thou knowest how her image 
haunted me 
Long after we returned to Alcala. 
She’s in Madrid. 
I know it. 
: And I’m in love. 
Hyp. And therefore in Madrid 
when thou shouldst be 
In Aleala. 
Vict. Oh pardon me, my friend, 
If I so long have kept this secret 
from thee; 


Dost thou 


36 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 





But silence is the charm that 
guards such treasures, 
And, if a word be spoken ere the 
time, 
They sink again, they were not 
meant for us. 
Hyp. Alas! alas! I see thou art 
in love. 
Love keeps the cold out better than 
a cloak. 
It serves for food and raiment. 
Give a Spaniard 
His mass, his olla, and his Doiia 
Luisa — 
Thou knowest the proverb. But 
pray tell me, lover, 
How speeds thy wooing? Is the 
maiden coy ? 
Write her a song, beginning with 
an Ave; 
Sing as the monk sang to the 
Virgin Mary, 
Ave! cujus caleem clare 
Nec centenni commendare 
Sciret Seraph studio ! 
Vict. Pray, do not jest! This is 
no time for it! 
I am in earnest! 
Hyp. Seriously enamored ? 
What, ho! The Primus of great 
Alcala 
Enamored of a Gypsy? Tell me 
frankly, 
How meanest thou? 
Vict. I mean it honestly. 
Hyp. Surely thou wilt not marry 
her! 
Vict. Why not? 
Hyp. She was betrothed to one 
Bartolomé, 
If I remember rightly, a young 
Gypsy 
Who danced with her at Cordova. 
Vict. They quarrelled, 
And so the matter ended. 
Hyp. But in truth 
Thou wilt not marry her. 
Vict. In truth I will. 
The angels sang in heayen when 
she was born! 


She is a precious jewel I have 
found 
Among the filth and rubbish af 
the world. 
I’ll stoop for it; but when I wear 
it here, 
Set on my forehead like the morn- 
ing star, 
The world may wonder, but it will 
not laugh. 
Hyp. Tf thou wear’st nothing 
else upon thy foreuead, 
*T will be indeed a wonder. 
Vict. Out upon thee 
With thy unseasonable jests! Pray 
tell me, 
Is there no virtue in the world? 
Hyp. Not much. 
What, think’st thou, is she doing 
at this moment ; 
Now, while we speak of her? 
Vict. She lies asleep, 
And from her parted lips her gentle 
breath 
Comes like the fragrance from the 
lips of flowers. 
Her tender limbs are still, and on 
her breast 
The cross she prayed to, ere she 
fell asleep, 
Rises and falls with the soft tide 
of dreams, 
Like a light barge safe moored. 
Hyp. Which means, in prose, 
She’s sleeping with her mouth a 
little open! 
Viet. Oh, would I had the old 
magician’s glass 
To see her as she lies in child-like 
sleep! 
Hyp. And wouldst thou ven 
ture? 
Vict. Ay, indeed I would! 
Hyp. Thou art courageous, 
Hast thou e’er reflected 
How much lies hidden in that one 
word, now ? 
Vict. Yes; all the awful mys 
tery of Life! 
I oft have thought,my dear Hypo 
lito, 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 3% 


— 


That could we, by some spell of 
magic, change : 

The world and its inhabitants to 
stone, 

In the same attitudes they now are 
in, 

What fearful glances downward 
might we cast 

imto the hollow chasms of human 
life! 

What groups should we behold 
about the death-bed, 

Putting to shame the group of 
Niobe! 

What joyful welcomes, and what 
sad farewells! 

What stony tears in those con- 
gealéd eyes! 

What visible joy or anguish in 
those cheeks! 

What bridal pomps, and what fu- 
nereal shows! 

What foes, like gladiators, fierce 
and struggling! 

What lovers with their marble lips 
together ! 

Hyp. Ay, there it is! and, if I 

were in love, 

That is the very point I most 
should dread. 

This magic glass, these magic 
spells of thine, 

Might tell a tale were better left 
untold. 

For instance, they might show us 

‘thy fair cousin, 

The Lady Violante, bathed in tears 

Of love and anger, like the maid of 
Colchis, 

Whom thou, another faithless Ar- 
gonaut, 

Waving won that golden fleece, a 
woman’s love, 

Desertest for this Glaucé. 

Viet. Hold thy peace! 

She cares not for me. She may 
wed another, 

Or go into a convent, and, thus 
dying, 

Marry Achilles in the Elysian 
Fields. 





And so, good 
night! Good morning, I 
should say. 

(Clock strikes three.) 

Hark! how the loud and ponder- 
ous mace of Time i 

Kneoeks at the golden portals of 
tne day! 

And sc, once more, good night! 
We’ll speak more largely 

Of Preciosa when we meet again. 

Get thee to bed, and the magician, 
Sleep, 

Shall show her to thee, in his magic 
glass, 

In all her loveliness. 


Hyp. (rising). 


Good night! 

[Eait. 

Vict. Good night! 

But not to bed; for I must read 
awhile. 


(Throws himself into the arm- 
chair which HYPOLITO has left, 
and lays a large book open upon 
his knees.) 


Must read, or sit in revery and 
watch 

The changing color of the waves 
that break 

Upon the idle sea-shore of the 
mind! 

Visions of Fame! that once did 
visit me, 

Making night glorious with your 
smile, where are ye? 

Oh, who shall give me, now that ye 
are gone, 

Juices of those immortal plants 
that bloom 

Upon Olympus, making us immor- 
tal? 

Or teach me where that wondrous 
mandrake grows 

Whose magie root, torn from the 
earth with groans, 

At midnight hour, can scare the 
fiends away, 

And make the mind prolific tn its 
fancies ? 

I have the wish, but want the will 
to act! 


35 THE 


SPANISH STUDENT 





souls of great men departed! Ye 
whose words 

Have come to light from the swift 
river of Time, 

Like Roman swords found in the 
Tagus’ bed. 

Where is the strength to wield the 
arms ye bore? 

From the barred visor of Antiquity 

lieflected shines the eternal light 
of Truth, 

As from a mirror! 
of action — 

The shapeless masses, the mate- 
rials — 

Lie everywhere about us. 
we need 

Is the celestial fire to change the 
flint 

Into transparent crystal, bright 
and clear. 

That fire is genius! 
peasant sits 

At evening in his smoky cot, and 
draws 

With charcoal uncouth figures on 
the wall. 

The son of genius comes, foot-sore 
with travel, 

And begs a shelter from the incle- 
ment night. 

He takes the charcoal from the 
peasant’s hand, 

And, by the magic of his touch at 
once 

Transfigured, all its hidden vir- 
tues shine, 

And, in the eyes of the astonished 
clown, 

It gleams a diamond! Even thus 
transformed, 

Rude popular traditions and old 
tales 

Shine as immortal poems, at the 
touch 

Of some poor, houseless, homeless, 
wandering bard, 

Who had but a night’s lodging for 
his pains. 

But there are brighter dreams 
than those of Fame, 


All the means 


What 


The rude 





Which are the dreams of Lovet 
‘Out of the heart 

Rises the bright ideal of these 
dreams, 

As from some woodland fount a 
spirit rises 

And sinks again into its silent 
deeps, 

Ere the enamored knight can 
touch her robe! 

’T is this ideal that the soul of man, 

Like the enamored knight beside 
the fountain, 

Waits for upor the margin of 
Life’s stream ; 

Waits to behold her rise from the 
dark waters, 

Clad in a mortal shape! 
how many 
Must wait in vain! 

flows evermore, 
But from its silent deeps no spirit 


Alas! 


The stream 


rises! 

Yet I, born under a propitious 
star, 

Have found the bright ideal of my 
dreams. 

Yes! she is ever with me. I can 
feel, 

Here, as I sit at midnight and 
alone, 

Her gentle breathing! on my 
breast can feel 

The pressure of her head! God’s 


benison 
Rest ever on it! 
beauteous eyes, 
Sweet Sieep! and all the flowers 
that bloom at night 
With balmy lips breathe in her 
ears my name! 
(Gradually sinks asleep.) 


Close those 


ACT ITI 


SCENE I.— PRECIOSA’S chamber. 
Morning. PRECIOSA and AN 
GELICA. 


Prec. Why will you go so soon! 
Stay yet awhile. 


THE 





The poor too often turn away un- 

heard 

From hearts that shut against 

them with a sound 

That will be heard in heaven. 

Pray, teJl me more 

Of your adversities. Keep nothing 

from me. 

What is your landlord’s name ? 
Ang. The Count of Lara. 
Prec. The Count of Lara? Oh, 

beware that man! 

Mistrust his pity, — hold no parley 

with him! 

And rather die an outcast in the 

streets 

Than touch his gold. 

Ang. You know him, then! 
Free. As much 

. AS any woman may, and yet be 

pure. 

As you would keep your name 

without a blemish, 

Beware of him! 

Ang. Alas! what can J do? 

I cannot choose my friends. Each 

word of kindness, 

Come whence it may, is welcome 

to the poor. 

Prec. Make me your friend. A 
girl so young and fair 
Should have no friends but those 

of her own sex. 

What is your name? 

Ang. Angelica. 
Prec. That name 

Was given you, that you might be 

an angel 

To her who bore you! When your 

infant smile 

Made her home Paradise, you were 

her angel. 

Oh, be an angel still! 

that smile. 

So long as you are innocent, fear 

nothing. 

No onecan harm you! Iama poor 

girl, 

Whom chance has taken from the 

public streets. 


She needs 


SPANISH STUDENT 





39 


I have no other shield than mine 
Own virtue. 
That is the gharm which has pro- 
tected me! 
Amid a thousand perils, I have 
worn it 
Here on my heart! 
dian angel. 
Ang. (rising). I thank you for 
this counsel, dearest lady. 


It is my guar- 


Prec. Thank me by following it. 
Ang. Indeed I will. 
Prec. Pray, do not go. Ihave 


much more to say. 

Ang. My mother is alone. I 
dare not leave her. 

Prec. Some other time, then, 
when we meet again. 

You must not go away with words 

alone. 
(Gives her a purse.) 

Take this. Would it were more. 
Ang. I thank you, lady. 
Prec. No thanks. To-morrow 

come to me again. 

I dance to-night, — perhaps for the 

last time. 

But what I gain, I promise shall 

be yours, 

If that can save you from the 

Count of Lara. 
Ang. Oh, my dear lady! how 
shall I be grateful 

For so much kindness ? 

Pree. I deserve no thanks. 

Thank Heaven, not me. 

Ang. Both Heaven and you. 
Prec. Farewell, 
Remember that you come again 
to-morrow. 
Ang. I will. And may the 
Blessed Virgin guard you, 

And all good angels. (Exit. 
Prec. May they guard thee too, 

And all the poor; for they have 

need of angels. 

Now bring me, dear Dolores, my 

basquina, 

My richest maja dress,—my dan: 

cing dress, 


4o 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 





And my most precious jewels! 
Make me look 

Fairer than night e’er saw me! 
I’ve a prize 

To wi: .his day, worthy of Pre- 
ciosa! 

(Enter BELTRAN CRUZADO.) 
Cruz. Ave Maria! , 
Prec. O God! my evil genius! 

What seekest thou here to-day ? 

Cruz. Thyself, — my child. 
Prec. What is thy will with me? 
Cruz. Gold! gold! 
Prec. I gave thee yesterday; I 

have no more. 

Cruz. The gold of the Busné, — 

give me his gold! 
Prec. I gave the last in charity 
to-day. 

Cruz. That is a foolish lie. 

Pree. It is the truth. 

Cruz. Curses upon thee! Thou 

art not my child! 
Hast thou given gold away, and 
not to me? 
Not to thy father? To whom, 
then? 
Pree, To one 
Who needs it more. 

Cruz. No one can need it more. 

Pree. Thou art not poor. 
Cruz. What, I, who lurk about 
In dismal suburbs and unwhole- 
some lanes; 
I, who am housed worse than the 
galley slave; 
I, who am fed worse than the ken- 
nelled hound; 
I, who am clothed in rags, — Bel- 
tran Cruzado, — 
Not poor! 
Pree. Thou hast a stout heart 
and strong hands. 
Thou canst supply thy wants; 
what wouldst thou more ? 
Cruz The gold of the Busne! 
give me his gold! 
Prec. Beltran Cruzado! hear me 
once for all. 
I speak the truth. So long as I 
had gold, 


I gave it to thee freely, at all 
times, 
Never denied thee; never had a 
wish 
But to fulfil thine own. Now go 
in peace! 
Be merciful, be patient, and ¢ere- 
long 
Thou shalt have more. 
Cruz. And if I have it not, 
Thou shalt no longer dwell here in 
rich chambers, 
Wear silken dresses, feed on dainty 
food, 
And live in idleness; but go with 
me, 
Dance the Romalis in the public 
streets, 
And wander wild again o’er field 
'  * and fell; 
For here we stay not long. 
Pree. What! march again? 
Cruz. Ay, withall speed. Ihate 
the crowded town! 
I cannot breathe shut up within 
its gates! 
Air,—I want air, and sunshine, 
and blue sky, 
The feeling of the breeze upon my 
face, 
The feeling of the turf beneath my 
feet, 
And no walls but the far-off moun- 
tain-tops. 
Then I am free and strong, — once 
more myself, 
Beltran Cruzado, Count of 
Calés! 
Prec. God speed thee on thy 
march !— I cannot go. 
Cruz. Remember who I am, and 
who thou art! 
Be silent and obey! Yet one thing 
more. 
Bartolomé Rom&n — 
Prec. (with emotion). 
seech thee! 
If my obedience and blameless 
life, 
If my humility and meek submis: 
sion 


the 


Oh, I be. 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 


4t 





In all things hitherto, can move in 


thee 

One feeling of compassion; if thou 
art 

Indeed my father, and canst trace 
in me 

One look of her who bore me, or 
one tone 

That doth remind thee of her, let 
it plead 

In my behalf, who am a feeble 
girl, 

Too feeble to resist, and do not 
force me 

To wed that man! Iam afraid of 
him! 


Ido not love him! 
I beg thee 

To use no violence, nor do in haste 

What cannot be undone! 

Cruz. O child, child, child! 

Thou hast betrayed thy secret, as 
a bird 

Betrays her nest, by striving to 
conceal it. 

I will not leave thee here in the 
great city 

Tobe a grandee’s mistress. 
thee ready 

To go with us; and until then re- 
member 

A watchful eye is on thee. [£zit. 

Prec. Woe is me! 

Ihave a strange misgiving in my 
heart! 

But that one deed of charity Ill 
do, 

Befall what may ; they cannot take 
that from me. 


On my knees 


Make 


SCENE II. — A room in the ARCH- 
BISHOP’S Palace. The ARCH- 
BISHOP and a CARDINAL seated. 


Arch. Knowing how near it 

touched the public morals, 

And that our age is grown cor- 
rupt and rotten 

By such excesses, we have sent to 
Rome, 

Beseeching that his Holiness would 
aid 


In curing the gross surfeit of the 
time, 
By seasonable stop put here in 
Spain 
To bull-fights and lewd dances on 
the stage. 
Ali this you know. 
Card. Know and approve. 
Arch, And further, 
That, by a mandate from his Holi- 
ness, 
The first have been suppressed. 
Card. I trust forever. 
It was a cruel sport. 
Arch. A barbarous pastime, 
Disgraceful to the land that calls 
itself 
Most Catholic and Christian. 
Card. Yet the people 
Murmur at this ; and, if the public 
dances 
Should be condemned upon too 
slight occasion, 
Worse ills might follow than the 
ills we cure. 
As Panem et Circenses was the cry 
Among the Roman populace of old, 
So Pan y Toros is the ery in 
Spain. 
Hence I would act advisedly here- 
in; 
And therefore have induced your 
Grace to see 
These national dances, ere we in- 
terdict them. 
(Enter a Servant.) 
Serv. The dancing-girl, and with 
her the musicians 
Your Grace was pleased to order, 
wait without. 
Arch. Bid them come in. 
shall your eyes behold 
In what angelic, yet voluptuous 
shape 
The Devil came to tempt Saint 
Anthony. 


Now 


(Enter PRECIOSA, with a mantle 
thrown over her head. She ae- 
vances slowly, in modest, half- 
timid attitude.) 


42 THE SPANISH STUDENT 


———— 


Card. (aside). Oh, what a fair 
and ministering angel 

Was lost to heaven when this 

sweet woman fell! 

Prec. (kneeling before the ARCH- 
BISHOP). Ihave obeyed the 
order of your Grace. 

If I intrude upon your better 

hours, 

I proffer this excuse, and here be- 

seech 

Your holy benediction. 

Arch. May God bless thee, 

And lead thee to a better life. 

Arise. 

Card. (aside). Her acts are 
modest, and her words dis- 
ereet ! 

I did not look for this! 

hither, child. 

Is thy name Preciosa ? 
Prec. Thus I am called. 
Card. That is a Gypsy name. 

Who is thy father? 

Prec. Beltran Cruzado, Count of 
the Calés. 

Arch. [have a dim remembrance 
of that man ; 

He was a bold and reckless char- 

acter, 

A sun-burnt Ishmael! 

Card. Dost thou remember 

Thy earlier days ? 

Prec. Yes; by the Darro’s side 

My childhood passed. I can re- 

member still 

The river, and the mountains 

capped with snow; 

The villages, where, yet a little 

child, 

I told the traveller’s fortune in the 

street ; 

The smuggler’s horse, the brigand 

and the shepherd ; 

The march across the moor; the 

halt at noon; 

The red fire of the evening camp, 

that lighted 

The forest where we slept; and, 
further back. 


Come 


— 


As in a dream or in some former 
life, ; 
Gardens and palace walls. 
Arch. *T is the Alhambra, 
Under whose towers the Gypsy 
camp was pitched. : 
But the time wears; and we would 
see thee dance. 
Prec. Your Grace shall 
obeyed. 


(She lays aside her mantilla. The 
music of the cachucha is played, 
and the dance begins. The 
ARCHBISHOP and the CARDI- 
NAL look on with gravity and 
an occasional frown ; then make 
signs to each other ; and, as the 
dance continues, become more 
and more pleased and excited ; 
and at length rise from their 
seats, throw their caps in the 
air,and applaud vehemently as 
the scene closes.) 


be 


SCENE III.— The Prado. Along 
avenue of trees leading to the 
gate of Atocha. On the right the 
dome and spires of a convent. 
A fountain. Evening. DON 
CARLOS and HYPOLITO meet- 
ing. 


Don C. Hol&! good evening, 
Don Hypolito. 
Hyp. Anda good evening to my 
friend, Don Carlos. 
Some lucky star has led my steps 
this way. 
I was in search of you. 
Don C. Command me always. 
Hyp. Do you remember, in Que- 
vedo’s Dreams, 
The miser, who, upon the Day of 
Judgment, 
Asks if his money-bags would rise ? 
Don C. Ido: 
But what of that? 
Hyp. Yam that wretched man. 
Don C. You mean to tell me 
yours have risen empty ? 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 


43 





Hyp. And amen! said my Cid 
Campeador. 
Don C. Pray, how much need 
you? 
Hyp. Some half-dozen ounces, 
Which, with due interest — 
Don C. (giving his purse). 
What, am I-a Jew 
To put my moneys out at usury ? 
Here is my purse. 
Hyp. Thank you. 
purse. 
Made by the hand of some fair 
Madrilefia ; 
Perhaps a keepsake. 
Don C. No, *tis at your ser- 
vice. 
Hyp. Thank you again. 
there,*good Chrysostom, 
And with thy golden mouth re- 
mind me often, 
Iam the debtor of my friend. 
Don C. But tell me, 
Come you to-day from Alcala ? 
Hyp. This moment. 
Don C. And pray, how fares the 
brave Victorian ? 
Hyp. Indifferent well; that is to 
say, not well. 
A damsel has ensnared him with 
the glances 
Of her dark, roving eyes, as herds- 
men catch 
A steer of Andalusia with a lazo. 
He is in love. 


A pretty 


Lie 


Don C. And is it faring ill 
To be in love? 
Hyp. In his case very ill. 


Don C. Why so? 

Hyp. For many reasons. 

and foremost, 
Because he is in 


First 


love with an 


ideal; 

A creature of his own imagina- 
tion; 

A child of air; an echo of his 
heart; 

And, like a lily on a river float- 


ing, 
She floats upon the river of his 
thoughts! 


Don C. A common thing with 
poets. But who is 
This floating lily? For, in fine, 
some woman, 
Some living woman, — not a mere 
ideal, — 
Must wear the outward semblance 
of his thought. 
Whois it? Tell me. 
Hyp. Well, it is a woman! 
But, look you, from the coffer of 
his heart 
He brings forth precious jewels to 
adorn her, 
As pious priests adorn some favor- 
ite saint 
With gems and gold, untilat length 
she gleams 
One blaze of glory. Without these, 
you know, 
And the priest’s benediction, ’t is a 
doll. 
Don C. Well, well! who is this 
doll? 
Hyp. Why, who do you think ? ° 
Don C. His cousin Violante. 
Hyp. Guess again. 
To ease his laboring heart, in the 
last storm 
He threw her overboard, with all 
her ingots. 
Don C. I cannot guess; so tell 
me who it is. 
Hyp. Not I. 
Don C. Why not? 
Hyp. (mysteriously). Why? Be- 
cause Mari Franca 
Was married four leagues out of 
Salamanca ! 


Don C. Jesting aside, who is 
it? 
Hyp. Preciosa. 


Don C. Impossible! The Count 
of Lara tells me 
She is not virtuous. 
Hyp. Did I say she was ? 
The Roman Emperor Claudius 
had a wife 
Whose name was Messalina, as I 
think ; 
Valeria Messalina was her name. 


44 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 





But hist! I see him 
through the trees, 
Walking as in a dream. 
Don C. He comes this way. 
Hyp. It has been truly said by 
some wise man, 
That money, grief, and love can- 
not be hidden. 


yonder 


(Enter VICTORIAN in front.) 


Vict. Where’er thy step has 
passed is holy ground! 
These groves are sacred! 
hold thee walking 
Under these shadowy trees, where 
we have walked 
At evening, and I feel thy presence 
now; 
Feel that the place has taken a 
charm from thee, 
And is forever hallowed. 
Hyp. Mark him well! 
See how he strides away with 
lordly air, 
‘Like that odd guest of stone, that 
grim Commander 
Who comes to sup with Juan in 
the play. 
Don C. What ho! Victorian! 
Hyp. Wilt thou sup with us? 
Vict. Hol&! amigos! Faith, I 
did not see you. 
How fares Don Carlos? 
Don C. At your service ever. 
Vict. How is that young and 
green-eyed Gaditana 
That you both wot of ? 
Don C. Ay, soft, emerald eyes! 
She has gone back to Cadiz. 
Hyp. Ay de mi! 
Vict. You are much to blame 
for letting her go back. 
A pretty girl; and in her tender 
eyes 
Just that soft shade of green we 
sometimes see 
In evening skies. 
Hyp. But, speaking of green 
eyes, 
Are thine green? 
Fict. Not a whit.. Why so? 


I be- 


Hyp. I think 
The slightest shade of green woul? 
be becoming, 
For thou art jealous. 
Vict. No, I am not jealous. 
Hyp. Thou shouldst be. 
Vict. Why? 
Hyp. Because thou art in love. 
And they who are in love are al 
ways jealous. 
Therefore thou shouldst be. 
Vict. Marry, is that all? 
Farewell; I am in haste, Fareé- 
well, Don Carlos. 
Thou sayest I should be jealous? 
Hyp. Ay, in truth 
I fear there is reason. Be upon thy 
guard. 
I hear it whispered that the Count 
of Lara 
Lays siege to the same citadel. 
Vict. Indeed! 
Then he will have his labor for his 
pains. 
Hyp. He does not think so, and 
Don Carlos tells me 
He boasts of his success. 
Vict. How ’s this, Don Carlos? 
Don C. Some hints of it I heard 
from his own lips. 
He spoke but lightly of the lady’s 
virtue, 
AS a gay man might speak. 


Vict. Death and damnation! 
T’ll cut his lying tongue out of his 
mouth, 
And throw it to my dog! But, no, 
no, no! 
This cannot be. You jest, indeed 
you jest. 
Trifle with me no more. For oth- 
erwise 
We are no longer friends. And so, 
farewell! [Eait. 


Hyp. Now what a coilis here! 
The Avenging Child 
Hunting the traitor Quadros to his 
death, f 
And the great Moor Calaynos 
when he rode 
To Paris for the ears of Oliver, 


THE’ SPANISH STUDENT 


45 





O. hot- 


Were nothing to him! 
headed youth! 
But come; we will not follow. Let 


us join 

The crowd that pours into the 
Prado. There 

We shall find merrier company; I 
see 

The Marialonzos and the Almavi- 
vas, 

And fifty fans, that beckon me 
already. [Exeunt. 


SCENE IV.— PRECIOSA’S cham- 
She is sitting, with a book 
in her hand, near a table, on 
which are flowers. <A bird sing- 
ing in its cage. The COUNT OF 
LaRaA enters behind unperceived. 


ow 
Ure 


Prec. (reads). 


All are sleeping, weary heart ! 
Thou, thou only sleepless art ! 


Heigho! I wish Victorian were 
here. 

I know not what it is makes me so 
restless ! 

(The bird sings.) 

Thou little prisoner with thy mot- 
ley coat, 

That from thy vaulted, wiry dun- 
geon singest, 

Like thee I am a captive, and, like 
thee, 

TI have a gentle jailer. Lack-a-day ! 


All are sleeping, weary heart ! 
Thou, thou only sleepless art ! 

All this throbbing, all this aching. 
Evermore shall keep thee waking, 
Fora heart in sorrow breaking 
Thinketh ever of its smart ! 


Thou speakest truly, poet! and 
methinks 

More hearts are breaking in this 
world of ours 

Than one would say. In distant 
Villages 

And solitudes remote, where winds 
have wafted 

The barbéd seeds of love, or birds 
of passage 


Scattered them in their flight, do 
they take root, 

And grow in silence, and in silence 
perish. 

Who hears the falling of the forest 
leaf? 

Or who takes note of every flower 
that dies? 

Heigho! IT wish Victorian would 
come. 

Dolores! 


(Turns to lay down her book, and 
perceives the COUNT.) 


Ha! 

Lara. Sefiora, pardon me! 

Prec. How’s this? Dolores! 

Lara. Pardon me — 

Prec. Dolores! 

Lara. Be not alarmed; I found 
no one in waiting. 

If I have been too bold — 
Prec. (turning her back upon 
him). You are too bold! 
Retire! retire, and leave me! 
Lara. My dear lady, 
First hear me! I beseech you, let 
me speak ! 
’T is for your good I come. 

Prec. (turning toward him 
with indignation). Begone! 
begone ! 

You are the Count of Lara, but 
your deeds 

Would make the statues of your 
ancestors 

Blush on their tombs! 
tilian honor, 

Is it Castilian pride, to steal in 
here 

Upon a friendless girl, to do her 
wrong? 

Oh shame! shame! shame! 
you, a nobleman, 

Should be so little noble in your 


Is it Cas- 


that 


thoughts 

As to send jewels here to win my 
love, 

And think to buy my honor with 
your gold! 


I have no words to tell you how I 
scorn you! 


46 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 





Begone! The sight of you is hate- 
ful to me! 
Begone, I say! 
Lara. Be calm; I will not harm 
you. 
Prec. Because you dare not. 


Lara. I dare anything! 

Therefore beware! You are de- 
ceived in me. 

In this false world, we do not al- 


ways know 

Who are our friends and who our 
enemies. 

We all have enemies, and all need 
friends. 

Even you, fair Preciosa, here at 
court 

Have foes, who seek to wrong you. 

Prec. If to this 

I owe the honor of the present 

visit, 


You might have spared the com- 
ing. Having spoken, 
Once more I beg you, leave me to 
myself. 
Lara. I thought it but a friendly 
part to tell you 
What strange reports are current 
here in town. 
For my own self, I do not credit 
them ; 
But there are many who, not know- 
ing you, 
Will lend a readier ear. 
Prec: There was no need 
That you should take upon your- 
self the duty 
Of telling me these tales. 
Lara. Malicious tongues 
Are ever busy with your name. 
Prec. Alas! 


I’ve no protectors. I am a poor 
girl, 

Exposed to insults and unfeeling 
jest. 


They wound me, yet I cannot 
shield myself. 

I give no cause for these reports. 
I live 

Retired ; am visited by none. 


Lara. By none? 
Oh, then, indeed, you are much 
wronged! 
iPrec How mean you? 
Lara. Nay, nay; I will not 
wound your gentle soul 
By the report of idle tales. 
Prec. Speak out! 
What are these idle tales? You 
need not spare me. 
Lara. I will deal frankly with 
you. Pardon me: 
This window, as I think, looks 
towards the street, 
And this into the Prado, does it 
not? 
In yon high.house, beyond the 
garden wall, — 
You see the roof there just above 
the trees, — 
There lives a friend, who told me 


yesterday, 

That on a certain night,—be not 
offended 

If I too plainly speak, — he saw a 
man 


Climb to your chamber window. 
You are silent! 

I would not blame you, being 
young and fair — 


(He tries to embrace her. She 
starts back,and draws a dagger 
from her bosom.) 


Prec. Beware! beware! 
Gypsy girl! 
Lay not your hand upon me. 
step hearer 
And I will strike! 
Lara. Pray you, put up that 
dagger. 
Fear not. 
Prec. I do not fear. 
heart 
In whose strength I can trust. 
Lara. Listen to me. 
I come here as your friend, — I am 
your friend, — 
And by a single word can put a 
stop 


lama 


One 


I have a 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 


47 





To all those idle tales, and make 
your name 

Spotless as lilies are. 
knees, 

Fair Preciosa! 
swear, 

I love you even to madness, and 
that love 

Has driven me to break the rules 
of custom, 

And force myself unasked into 
your presence. 


Here on my 


on my knees I 


(VICTORIAN enters behind.) 


Prec. Rise, Count of Lara! That 
is not the place 


For such as you are. It becomes 
you not 
To kneel before me I am 


strangely moved 
To see one of your rank thus low 
and humbied : 
For your sake I will put aside all 
anger, 
All unkind feeling, all dislike, and 
speak 
In gentleness, as most becomes a 
woman, 
And as my heart now prompts me. 
I no more 
Will hate you, for all hate is pain- 
ful to me. 
But if, without offending mod- 
esty - 
And that reserve which is a wo- 
man’s glory, 
I may speak freely, I wil) teach 
my heart 
To love you. 
Lara, O sweet angel! 
Pree, Ay, in truth, 
Far better than you love yourself 
or me. 
Lara. Give me some sign of 
this, — the slightest token. 
Let me but kiss your hand! 
Prec. Nay, come no nearer. 
The words I utter are its sign and 
token. 
Misunderstand me not! 
deceived! 


Be not 


The love wherewith I love you is 
not such 
As you would offer me. 
come here 
To take from me the only thing I 
have, 
My honor, You are wealthy, you 
have friends 
And kindred, and a thousand plea- 
sant hopes 
That fill your heart with happi. 
ness; but I 
Am poor, and friendless, having 
but one treasure, 
And ycu would take that from me, 
and for what ? 
To flatter your own vanity, and 
make me 
What you would most despise. 
Oh, sir, such love, 
That seeks to harm me, cannot be 
true love. 
Indeed it cannot. But my love for 
you 
Is of a different kind. 
your good. 
Tt is a holier feeling. It rebukes 
Your earthly passion, your un- 
chaste desires, 
And bids you look into your heart, 
and see 
How you do wrong that better 
nature in you, 
And grieve your soul with sin. 
Lara. I swear to you, 
I would not harm you; I would 
only love you. 
I would not take your honor, but 
restore it, 
And in return I ask but some 
slight mark 
Of your affection. 
love me, 
As you confess you do, oh, let me 
thus 
With this embrace — 
Vict. (rushing forward). Hold! 
hold! This is too much. 
What means this outrage ? 
Lara. First, what right have 
you 


For you 


It seeks 


If indeed you 


48 





To question thus a nobleman of 
Spain? 
Vict. I too am noble, and you 
are no more! 
Out of my sight! 
Lara, Are youthe master here ? 


Vict. Ay, here and elsewhere, 
when the wrong of others 
Gives me the right! 
Prec. (to LARA). Go! I beseech 
you, go! 
Vict. I shall have business with 
you, Count, anon! 


Lara. You cannot come too 
soon! ' Kvit. 
Prec. Victorian ! 


Oh, we have been betrayed! 
Vict. Ha! ha! betrayed! 
°T is I have been betrayed, not 
we !—not we! 
Prec. Dost thou imagine — 
Vict. I imagine nothing ; 
I see how ’t is thou whilest the 
time away 
When Iam gone! 
Prec. Oh, speak notin that tone! 
It wounds me deeply. 
Vict. ’T was not meant to flat- 
ter. 
Prec. Too well thou knowest 
the presence of that man 
Is hateful to me! 
Vict. Yet I saw thee stand 
And listen to him, when he told 
his love. 
Prec. I did not heed his words. 
Vict. Indeed thou didst, 
And answeredst them with love. 
Pree. Hadst thou heard all — 
Vict. I heard enough. 
Pree. Be not so angry with me. 
Vict. Lam notangry; Iam very 
calm. 
Pree. If thou wilt iet me speak — 
Vict. Nay, say no more. 
3 know too much already. Thou 
art false! 
I do not like these Gypsy mar- 
riages! 
Where is the ring I gave thee? 
Prec. In my casket. 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 


—t 


Vict. There let itrest! I would 
not have thee wear it: 
I thought thee spotless, and thou . 
art polluted ! 
Prec. 1 call the Heavens to wit- 
ness — 
Vict. Nay, nay, nay! 
Take not the name of Heaven 
upon thy lips! 
They are forsworn! 
Prec. Victorian ! dear victorian { 
Vict. I gave up all for thee ; my- 
self, my fame, 
My hopes of fortune, ay, my very 
soul! 
And thou hast been my ruin! 
Now, go on! 
Laugh at my folly with thy para- 
mour 
And, sitting on the Count of Lara’s 
knee, 
Say what a poor, fond fool Victo- 
rian was! 
(He casts her from him and rushes 
out.) 
Prec. And this from thee! 
(Scene closes.) 


SCENE V.— The COUNT OF LARA’S 
rooms. Enter the COUNT. 


Lara. There ’s nothing in this 

world so sweet as love, 

And next to love the sweetest 
thing is hate! 

I’ve learned to hate, and there- 
fore am revenged. 

A silly girl to play the prude with 
me! 

The fire that I have kindled — 


(Enter FRANCISCO.) 


Well, Francisc ° 

What tidings from Don Juan? 

Fran. Good, my lord; 
He will be present, 

Lara. And the Duke of Lermos! 

Fran. Was not at home. 

Lara. How with the rest? 
Fran. I’ve found 
The men you wanted. They will 

all be there, 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 





And at the given signal raise a 
whirlwind 

Of such discordant noises, that the 
dance 

Must cease for lack of music. 

Lara. Bravely done. 

Ah! little dost thou dream, sweet 
Preciosa. 

What lies in wait for thee. 
shall not close 

Thine eyes this night! Give me my 
eloak and sword. [Haxeunt. 


Sleep 


SCENE VI.—A retired spot be- 
yond the city gates. Enter Vic- 
TORIAN and HYPOLITO. 


Vict. Oh shame! Oh shame! 
Why do I walk abroad 
By daylight, when the very sun- 
shine mocks me, 
And voices, and familiar sights 
and sounds 
Cry, ‘Hide thyself!’ 
thin partition 
Doth shut out from the curious 
world the knowledge 
Of evil deeds that have been done 
in darkness ! 
Disgrace has many tongues, 
fears are windows, 
-Through which all eyes seem gaz- 
ing. Every face 
Expresses some suspicion of my 
shame. 
And in derision seems to smile at 
me! 
Hyp. Did IT not caution thee? 
Did I not tell thee 
I was but half persuaded of her 
virtue ? 
Vict. And yet, Hypolito, we may 
be wrong, 
We may be over-hasty in condemn- 


Oh, what a 


My 


ing! 

The Count of Lara is a cursed 
Villain. 

Hyp. And therefore is she 


cursed, loving him. 
Pict. She does not love him! 
°T is for gold! for gold! 


49 


———— 


Hyp. Ay, but remember, in the 
public streets 
He shows a golden ring the Gypsy 
gave him, 
A serpent with a ruby in its mouth. 
Vict. She had that ring from 
me! God! she is false; 
But I willbe revenged! The hour 
is passed. 
Where stays the coward ? 
Hyp. Nay, he is no coward; 
A villain, if thou wilt, but not a. 
coward. 
I’ve seen him play with swords; 
it is his pastime. 
And therefore be not over-confi- 
dent, 
He ’ll task thy skill anon. 
here he comes. 


Look, 


(Enter LARA followed by FRAN- 
CISCO.) 


Lara. Good evening, gentlemen. 
Hyp. Good evening, Count. 
Lara. I trust I have not kept 
you long in waiting. 
Vict. Not long, and yet too long. 
Are you prepared ? 
Lara. Tam. 
Hyp. It grieves me much to see 
this quarrel 
Between you, gentlemen. 
no way 

Left open to accord this difference, 

But you must make one with your 
swords ? 

Vict. No! none! 

T do entreat thee, dear Hypolito, 

Stand not between me and my foe. 
Too long 

Our tongues have spoken, Let 
these tongues of steel 

End our debate. Upon your guard, 
Sir Count. 


Ts there 


‘They fight. VICTORIAN disarms 
the COUNT.) 


Your life is mine; and what shall 
now withhold me 

From sending your vile soul to its 
account ? 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 





Lara. Strike! strike! 
Vict. Youare disarmed. I will 
not kill you. 
{ will not murder you. Take up 
your sword. 
(FRANCISCO hands the COUNT his 


sword, and HYPOLITO inter- 
poses.) 
Hyp. Enough! Let it end here! 
The Count of Lara 
Has shown himself a brave man, 
and Victorian 
A generous one, as ever, 
friends. 
Put up your swords; for, to speak 
frankly to you, 
Your cause of quarrel is too slight 
a thing 
To move you to extremes. 


Now be 


Lara. Iam content. 
I sought no quarrel. A few hasty 
words, 


Spoken in the heat of blood, have 
led to this. 
Vict. Nay, something more than 
that. 
Lara. IT understand you. 
Therein I did not mean to cross 
your path. 
To me the door stood open, as to 
others. 
But, had I known the girl belonged 
to you, 
Never would J have sought to win 
her from you. 
The truth stands now revealed; 
she has been false 
To both of us. 
Viet. Ay, false as hell itself! 
Lara. In truth, I did not seek 
her; she sought me; 
And told me how to win her, tell- 
ing me 
The hours when she was oftenest 
left alone. 
Vict. Say, can you prove this to 
me? Oh, pluck out 
These awful doubts, that goad me 
into madness ! 
Let me know all! all! all! 





Lara. You shall know all 
Here is my page, who was the mes- 
senger 
Between us. Questionhim. Was 
it not so, 
Francisco? 
Fran.  Ay,my lord. 
Lara. If further proof 
Is needful, IT have here a ring she 
gave me. 
Vict. Pray let me see that ring! 
It is the same! 


(Throws it upon the ground, and 
_ tramples upon it.) 


Thus may she perish who once 
wore that ring! 

Thus do I spurn her from me; do 
thus trample 

Her memory in the dust! OCount 
of Lara, 

We both have been abused, been 
much abused! 
I thank you for your courtesy ang 
frankness. § 
Though, like the surgeon’s hand, 
yours gave me pain, 

Yet it has cured my blindness, and 
I thank you. 

I now can see the folly I have 
done, 

Though ’t is, alas! too late. 
fare you well! 

To-night I leave this hateful town 
forever. 

Regard me as your friend. 
more farewell! 

Hyp. Farewell, Sir Count. 


So 


Once 


[Exeunt VICTORIAN and Hy- 
POLITO. 


Lara. Farewell! farewell! fare- 
well! 
Thus have I cleared the field of 
my worst foe! 
I have none else to fear; the fight 
is done, 
The citadel is stormed, the victory 
won! 
[Exit with FRANCISCO, 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 51 





SCENE VITI.— 4 lane in the sub- 


urbs. Night. Enter CRUZADO 
and BARTOLOME. 


Cruz. And so, Bartolomé, the ex- 
pedition failed. But where wast 
thou for the most part? 

Bart. In the Guadarrama moun- 
tains, near San Ildefonso. 

Cruz. And thou bringest nothing 
back with thee? Didst thou rob 
no one? 

Bart. There was no one to rob, 
save a party of students from Se- 
govia, who looked as if they would 
rob us; and a jolly little friar, who 
had nothing in his pockets but a 
missal and a loaf of bread. 

Cruz. Pray, then, what brings 
thee back to Madrid ? 

Bart. First tell me what keeps 
thee here ? 

Cruz. Preciosa. 

Bart. And she brings me back. 
Hast thou forgotten thy promise? 

Cruz. The two years are not 
passed yet. Wait patiently. The 
girl shall be thine. 

Bart. I hear she has a Busné 
lover. 

Cruz. That is nothing. 

Bart. I do not like it. I hate 
him,—the son of a Busné harlot. 
He goes in and out, and speaks 
with her atone, and I must stand 
aside, and wait his pleasure. 

Cruz. Be patient, I say. Thou 
Shalt have thy revenge. When the 
time comes, thou shalt waylay him. 

Bart. Meanwhile, show me her 
house. 

Cruz. Come this way. But thou 
wilt not find her. She dances at 
the play to-night. 

Bart. No matter. 
house, 


Show me the 
[Exeunt. 


SCENE VIII. — The Theatre. The 
orchestra plays the cachucha. 
Sound of castanets behind the 
scenes. The curtain rises, and 


discovers PRECIOSA in the atti 
tude of commencing the dance, 
The cachucha. Tumult ; hisses ; 
cries of ‘ Brava!’ and‘ Afuera!! 
She falters and pauses. The 
music stops. General confusion 


PRECIOSA faints. 
ScENE IX.— The COUNT OF 
LARA’S chambers. LARA and 


his friends at supper. 


Lara. So, Caballeros, once more 
many thanks! 
You have stood by me bravely in 
this matter. 
Pray fill your glasses, 
Don J. Did you mark, Don Luis, 
How -pale she looked, when first 
the noise began, 
And then stood still, with her large 
eyes dilated! 
Her nostrils spread! her lips apart! 
her bosom 
Tumultuous as the sea! 
Don L. T pitied her. 
Lara. Her pride is humbled; 
and this very night 
I mean to visit her. 
Don J. Will you serenade her? 
Lara. No music! no more mu- 
sic! 
Don L. Why not music ? 
It softens many hearts. 
Lara, Not in the humor 
She now isin. Music would mad- 
den her. 
Don J. Try golden cymbals. 


Don L. Yes, try Don Dinero; 
A mighty wooer is your Don 
Dinero. 


Lara. To tell the truth, then, I 
have bribed her maid. 
But, Caballeros, you dislike this 
wine. 
A bumper and away; for the night 
wears. 
A health to Preciosa. 
(They rise and drink.) 
All, Preciosa. 
Lara (holding up his glass). 


§2 





Thou bright and flaming 
minister of Love! 
Thou wonderful magician! who 
hast stolen 
My secret from me, and ’mid sighs 
of passion 
Caught from my lips, with red and 
fiery tongue, 
Her precious name! 
more henceforth 
Shall mortal lips press thine; and 
nevermore 
A mortal name be whispered in 
thine ear. 
Go! keep my secret! 
(Drinks and dashes the goblet 
down.) 
Ite! missa est! 
(Scene closes.) 


Oh never- 


Don J. 


SCENE X.— Street and garden 
wall. Night. Enter CRUZADO 
and BARTOLOME. 

Cruz. This is the garden wall, 


and above it, yonder, is her house, 
The window in which thou seest 


the light is her window. But we 
will not go in now. 

Bart. Why not? 

Cruz. Because she is not at 


ome. 

Bart. No matter; we can wait. 
But how is this? The gate is 
bolted. (Sound of guitars and 
voices in a neighboring street.) 
Hark! There comes her lover 
with his infernalserenade! Hark! 


SONG. 


Good night! Good night, beloved! 
I come to watch o’er thee ! 

To be near thee, — to be near thee, 
Alone is peace for me. 


Thine eyes are stars of morning, 
Thy lips are crimson flowers! 

Good night! Good night, beloved, 
While I count the weary hours. 


Cruz. They are not coming this 
way. 
Bart. Wait, they begin again. 





THE SPANISH STUDENT 


oP 


SONG (coming nearer). 


Ah! thou moon that shinest 
Argent-clear above! 

All night long enlighten 
My sweet lady-love ; 
Moon that shinest, 

All night long enlighten! 


Bart. Woe be to him, if he comes 
this way! 

Cruz. Be quiet, they are passing 
down the street. 


SONG (dying away). 


The nuns in the cloister 
Sang to each other; 
For so many sisters 
Is there not one brother ! 
Ay, for the partridge, mother! 
The cat has run away with the par- 
tridge ! 
Puss! puss! puss! 


Bart, Follow that! follow that! 
Come with me. Puss! puss! 


(Exeunt, On the opposite side 
enter the COUNT OF LARA and 
gentlemen with FRANCISCO.) 


Lara. The gate is fast. Over 

the wall, Francisco, 

And draw the bolt. There, so, and 
so, and over. 

Now, gentlemen, come in, and help 
me scale 

Yon baleony. How now? 
light still burns. . 

Move warily. Make fast the gate, 
Francisco. 

(Exeunt. Iteénter CRUZADO and 

BARTOLOME.) 

Bart. They went in at the gate. 
Hark! I hear them in the garden. 
(Tries the gate.) Bolted again! 
Vive Cristo! Follow me over the 
wall. 

(They climb the wall.) 


Her 


SCENE XI.— PRECIOSA’s bed. 
chamber. Midnight. She is 
sleeping in an arm-chair, in an 
undress. DOLORES watching 
her. 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 


~ 


Dol. She sleeps at last! 
(Opens the window, and listens.) 
All silent in the street, 
And inthe garden. Hark! 
Prec. (in her sleep). I must go 
hence! 
Give me my cloak! 
Dol. He comes! 
footsteps. 
Prec. Go tell them that I cannot 
dance to-night ; 
I am too ill! Look at me! 
the fever 
That burns upon my cheek! I 
must go hence. 
I am too weak to dance. 
(Signal trom the garden.) 
Dol.( fromthe window). Who’s 
there ? 
Voice (from below). 


I hear his 


See 


A. friend. 


Dol. I will undo the door. Wait 
till I come. 
Prec. I must go hence. I pray 


you do not harm me! 

phame! shame! to treat a feeble 
woman thus! 

Be you but kind, I will do all things 
for you. 

I’m ready now, — give me my cas- 
tanets. 

Where is Victorian? 
hateful lamps! 

They glare upon me like an evil 
eye. 

I cannot stay. Hark! how they 
mock at me! 

They hiss at me like serpents! 
Save me! save me! 

(She wakes.) 
How late is it, Dolores? 
Dol. It is midnight. 
Prec. We must be _ patient. 

Smooth this pillow for me. 


Oh, those 


(She sleeps again. Noise from the 
garden, and voices.) 
Voice. Muera! 
Another voice. 
lains! 
Lara. So! have at you! 
Voice. Take that! 


O villains! vil- 


53 





Lara. 
Dol. 
Jesu Maria! 


Oh, Iam wounded; 
(shutting the window). 


ACT III 


SCENE I. — A cross-road through 
a wood. In the background a 
distant. village spire. VI1UCTOo- 
RIAN and HYPOLITO, as trav- 
elling students, with guitars, sit- 
ting under the trees. HYPOLITO 
plays and sings. 


SONG. 


Ah, Love ! 

Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 
Enemy 

Of all that mankind may not rue! 
Most untrue 

To him who keeps most faith with thee. 
Woe is me! 

The falcon has the eyes of the dove. 
Ah, Love! 

Perjured, false, treacherous Love! 


Vict. Yes, Love is ever busy 
with his shuttle, 
Is ever weaving into life’s dull 
warp 
Bright, gorgeous flowers and 
scenes Arcadian ; 
Hanging our gloomy prison-house 
about 
With tapestries, that make its 
walls dilate 
In never-ending vistas of delight. 
Hyp. Thinking to walk in those 
Arcadian pastures, 
Thou hast run thy noble head 
against the wall. 


SONG (continued). 


Thy deceits 
Give us clearly to comprehend, 
Whither tend 
All thy pleasures, all thy sweets ! 
They are cheats, 
Thorns below and flowers above. 
Ah, Love! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 


Vict. A very pretty song. I 
thank thee for it. 


54 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 





Hyp. It suits thy case. 

Vict. Indeed, I think it does. 
What wise man wrote it? 

Hyp. Lopez Maldonado. 

Vict. In truth, a pretty song, 

Hyp. With much truth in it. 
I hope thou wilt profit by it; and 

in earnest 


Try to forget this lady of thy 
love. 
Vict. I will forget her! All 


dear recollections 
Pressed in my heart, like flowers 
within a book, 
Shall be torn out, and scattered to 
the winds! 
I will forget her! 
hereafter, 
When she shall learn how heartless 
is the world, 
A voice within her will repeat my 
| name, 
And she will say, ‘ He was indeed 
my friend!’ 
Oh, would I were a soldier, not a 
scholar, 
That the loud march, the deafen- 
ing beat of drums, 
The shattering blast of the brass- 
throated trumpet, 
The din of arms, the onslaught and 
the storm, 
And a swift death, might make me 
deaf forever 
To the upbraidings of this foolish 
heart! 
Hyp. Then let that foolish heart 
upbraid no more! 
To conquer love, one need but will 
to conquer. 
Vict. Yet, good Hypolito, it is in 


But perhaps 


vain 

I throw into Oblivion’s sea the 
sword 

That pierces me; for, like Excali- 
bar, 


With gemmed and flashing hilt, it 
will not sink. 

There rises from below a hand that 
grasps it, 


And waves it in the air; and wail 
ing voices 
Are heard along the shore. 
Hyp. And yet at last 
Down sank Excalibar to rise no 
more. 
This isnot well. In truth, it vexes 
me. 
Instead of whistling to the steeds 
of Time, 
To make them jog on merrily with 
life’s burden, 
Like a dead weight thou hangest 
on the wheels. 
Thou art too young, too full of 
lusty health 
To talk of dying. 
Vict. Yet I fain would die! 
To go through life, unloving and 
unloved 
To feel that thirst and hunger of 
the soul 
We cannot still; that longing, that 
wild impulse, 
And struggle after something we 
have not 
And cannot have; the effort to be 
strong; 
And, like the Spartan boy, to smile, 
and smile, 
While secret wounds do bleed be- 
neath our cloaks ; 
All this the dead feel not, —the 
dead alone! 
Would I were with them! 
Hyp. We shall all be soon. 
Vict. It cannot be too soon; for 
Iam weary 
Of the bewildering masquerade of 
Life, 
Where strangers walk as friends, 
and friends as strangers; 
Where whispers overheard betray 
false hearts; 
And through the mazes of the 
crowd we chase 
Some form of loveliness, that 
smiles, and beckons, 
And cheats us with fair words, 
only to leave us 


THE. SPANISH STUDENT 


= 


A mockery anda jest; maddened, 
— confused, — 
Not knowing friend from foe. 
Hyp. Why seek to know? 
Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy 
youth! 
Take each fair mask for what it 
gives itself, 
Nor strive to look beneath it. 
Vict. I confess, 
That were the wiser part. But 
Hope no longer 
Comforts my _ soul. 
wretched man, 
Much like a poor and shipwrecked 
mariner, 
Who, struggling to climb up into 
the boat, 
Has both his bruised and bleeding 
hands cut off, 
And sinks again into the weltering 
sea, 
Helpless and hopeless! 
Hyp. Yet thou shalt not per- 
ish. 
The strength of thine own arm is 
thy salvation. 
Above thy head, through rifted 
clouds, there shines 
A glorious star. Be patient. Trust 
thy star! 
(Sound of a village bell in the dis- 
tance.) 
Vict. Ave Maria! 
sacristan 
Ringing the chimes from yonder 
village belfry ! 

A solemn sound, that echoes far 
and wide 

Over the red roofs of the cottages, 

And bids the laboring hind afield, 
the shepherd, 

Guarding his flock, the lonely 
muleteer, 

And all the crowd 
streets, stand still, 

And breathe a prayer unto the 
blessed Virgin ! 

Hyp. Amen! amen! 

league from hence 

The village lies. 


any ta: 


I hear the 


in village 


Not half a 


55 





Vict. This path will lead us to it, 

Over the wheat-fields, where the 
shadows sail 

Across the running sea, now green, 
now blue, 

And, lixe an idle mariner on the 
main, 

Whistles the quail. 
hasten on. 


Come, let us 
[Exeunt. 


SCENE II.— Public square in the 
village of Guadarrama. The 
Ave Maria still tolling. Acrowd 
of villagers, with their hats in 
their hands, as ifin prayer. In 
Front, a group of Gypsies. The 
bell rings a merrier peal. A 
Gypsy dance. Enter PANCHO, 
followed by PEDRO CRESPO. 


Pancho. Make room, ye vaga- 
bonds and Gypsy thieves! 
Make room for the Alcalde and 
for me! 
Pedro C. Keep silence all! I 
have an edict here 
From our most gracious lord, the 
King of Spain, 
Jerusalem, and the Canary Is 
lands, 
Which I shall publish in the mar- 
ket-place. 
Open your ears and listen! 


(Enter the PADRE CURA at the 
door of his cottage.) 
Padre Cura, 
Good day! and, pray you, hear this 
edict read. 
Padre C. Good day, and God be 
with you! 
Pray, what is it? 
Pedro C. An act of banishment 
against the Gypsies! 
(Agitation and murmurs in the 
crowd.) 
Pancho. Silence! 
Pedro C. (reads). ‘I hereby 
order and command, 
That the Egyptian and Chaldean 
strangers, 


56 





Known by the name of Gypsies, 
shall henceforth 

Be banished from the realm, as 
vagabonds 

And beggars; and if,after seventy 
days, 

Any be found within our kingdom’s 
bounds, 

They shall receive a hundred 
lashes each; 

The second time, shall have their 
ears cut off; 

The third, be slaves for life to him 
who takes them, 

Or burnt as heretics. 
the King.’ 

Vile miscreants and creatures un- 


Signed, I, 


baptized! 
You hear the law! Obey and dis- 
appear! 
Pancho. And if in seventy days 


you are not gone, 

Dead or alive I make you all my 

slaves. 

(The Gypsies go out in confusion, 
showing signs of fear and dis- 
content. PANCHO follows.) 
Padre Cc. A righteous law! A 

very righteous law! 

Pray you, sit down. 

Pedro Cc. I thank you heartily. 

(They seat themselves on a bench 
at the PADRE CURA’S door. 
Sound of guitars heard at a 
distance, approaching during 
the dialogue which follows.) 

A very righteous judgment, as you 

say. 

Now tell me, Padre Cura,— you 

know all things, — 


How came these Gypsies into 
Spain? 
Padre C. Why, look you; 


They came with Hercules from 
Palestine, 

And hence are thieves 
grants, Sir Alcalde, 

As the Simoniacs from Simon 
Magus. 


and va- 


And, look you, as Fray Jayme 


Bleda says, 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 


—- 


There are a hundred marks to 
prove a Moor 

Is not a Christian, so ’tis with the 
Gypsies. 

They never marry, never go to 
mass, 

Never baptize their children, nor 
keep Lent, 

Nor see the inside of a church, ~— 
nor — nor — 

Pedro C. Good reasons, good, 

substantial reasons all! 

No matter for the other ninety- 
five. 

They should be burnt, I see it plain 
enough, 

They should be burnt. 


(Enter VICTORIAN and Hypo- 
LITO playing.) 


Padre C. And pray, whom have 


we here? 
Pedro C. More vagrants! By 
Saint Lazarus, more  va- 


grants! 

Hyp. Good evening, gentlemen! 
Is this Guadarrama? 

Padre Cc. Yes, Guadarrama, and 
good evening to you. 

Hyp. We seek the Padre Cura 
of the village ; 

And, judging from your dress and 
reverend mien, 
You must be he. 

Padre C. Iam. Pray, what’s 
your pleasure? 

Hyp. We are poor students 

_ travelling in vacation. 

You know this mark ? 
(Touching the wooden spoon in his 
hat-band.) 

Padre C. (joyfully). Ay, know 
it, and have worn it. 

Pedro C. (aside). Soup-eaters ! 
by the mass! The worst of 
vagrants! 

And there’s no law against them. 
Sir, your servant. [Exit 

Padre C. Your servant, Pedre 

Crespo. 


Hyp. Padre Cura, 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 57 





From the first moment I beheld 
your face, 
I said within myself, ‘ This is the 
man!? 
There is a certain something in 
your looks, 
A certain scholar-like and studi- 
ous something, — 
You understand,— which cannot 
be mistaken ; 
Which marks youas a very learned 
man, 
In fine, as one of us. 
Vict. (aside). What impudence! 
Hyp. AS we approached, I said 
to my companion, 
*That is the Padre Cura ; mark my 
words !? 
Meaning your Grace. 
man,’ said I, 
‘Who sits so awkwardly upon the 
bench, 
Must be the sacristan.’ 
Padre C. Ah! said you so? 
Why, that was Pedro Crespo, the 
Alcalde! 
Hyp. Indeed! you much aston- 
ishme! His air 
Was not so full of dignity and 
grace 
As an Alcalde’s should be 
Padre C. That is true, 
He’s out of humor with some va- 
grant Gypsies, 
Who have their camp here in the 
neighborhood. 
There ’s nothing so undignified as 
anger. 
Hyp. The Padre Cura will ex- 
cuse our boldness, 
Tf, from his well-known hospitality, 
We crave a lodging for the night. 


‘The other 


Padre C. I pray you! 
You do me honor! I am but too 
happy 


To have such guests beneath my 
humble roof. 

It is not often that I have occasion 

To speak with scholars; and Emol- 
lit mores, 

WVec sinit esse feros, Cicero says. 


Hyp. ’Tis Ovid, is it not? 
Padre C. No, Cicero. 
Hyp. Your Grace is right. You 
are the better scholar. 
Now what a dunce was I to think 


it Ovid! 
But hang me if itis not! (A4side.) 
Padre C. Pass this way. 
He was a very great man, was 
Cicero! 
Pray you, go in, go in! no cere- 
mony. [Exeunt. 


SCENE III.— A roominthe PADRE 
CURA’S house. Enter the PADRE 
and HYPOLITO. 


Padre C. So then, Sefior, you 
come from Alcala. 
Tam glad to hear it. It was there 
I studied. 
Hyp. And left behind an hon- 
ored name, no doubt. 
How may I call your Grace ? 
Padre C. Geronimo 
De Santillana, at your Honor’s ser- 
vice. 
Hyp. Descended from the Mar- 
quis Santillana ? 
From the distinguished poet? 
Padre C. From the Marquis, 
Not from the poet. 
Hyp. Why, they were the same. 
Let ne embrace you! Oh, some 
lucky star 
Has brought me hither! Yetonce 
more !— once more! 
Your name is ever green in Al- 
cala, 
And our professor, when we are 
unruly, 
Will shake his hoary head, and 
say, ‘ Alas! 
It was not soin Santillana’s time! ? 
Padre C. I did not. think my 
name remembered there. 
Hyp. More than remembered; it 
is idolized. 
Padre C. Of what professor 
speak you? 


Hyp. Timoneda. 


58 THE SPANISH STUDENT 





Padre C. JI don’t remember any 
Timoneda. 
Hyp. A grave and sombre man, 
whose beetling brow 
O’erhangs the rushing current of 
his speech 
As rocks o’er rivers hang. Have 
you forgotten ? 
Padre C. Indeed, I have. Oh, 
those were pleasant days, 
Those college days! Ine’er shall 
see the like! 
I had not buried then so many 
hopes! 
I had not buried then so man 
friends! ’ 
I’ve turned my back on what was 
then before me: 
And the bright faces of my young 
companions 
Are wrinkled like my own, or are 
no more. 
Do you remember Cueva? 
Hyp. Cueva? Cueva? 
Padre C. Fool that Iam! He 
was before your time. 
You’re a mere boy, and I am an 
old man. 
Hyp. J should not like to try 
my strength with you. 
Padre C. .Well, well. But I 
forget; you must be hun- 


gry. 
Martina! ho! Martina! °Tis my 
niece. 
(Enter MARTINA.) 


IIyp. Youmay be proud of such 
a niece as that. 
I wish I had a niece. Emollit 


mores. (Aside.) 
He was a very great man, was Ci- 
cero! 


Your servant, fair Martina. 
Mart. Servant, sir. 
Padre C. This gentleman is 
hungry. See thou to it. 
Let us have supper. 
Mart. ’T will be ready soon. 
Padre C. And bring a bottle of 
5 my Val-de-Pehas 


Ce ee errr 


Out of the cellar. Stay; Ill ge 
myself. 
Pray you, Sefior, excuse me. [Exit 
Hyp. Hist! Martina! 
One word with you. Bless me! 
what handsome eyes! 
To-day there have been Gypsies in 
the village. 
Is it not so? 
Mart. There have been Gypsies 


here. 

Hyp.. Yes, and have told your 
fortune. 

Mart. (embarrassed). Told my 
fortune ? 


Hyp. Yes, yes; I know they 
did. Give me your hand. 
I’ll tell you what they said. They 
said, — they said, 
The shepherd boy that loved you 
was a clown, 
And him you should not marry. 
Was it not? 
Mart. (surprised). 
you that ? 
Hyp. Oh, I know more than that. 
Whata soft, little hand! Andthen 
they said, 
A cavalier from court, handsome, 
and tall 
And rich, should come one day to 
marry you, 
And you should be alady. Was it 
not? 
He has arrived, the handsome cay- 
alier. 


How know 


(Tries to kiss her. She runs off. 
Enter VICTORIAN, with a letter.) 


Vict. The muleteer has come. 


Hyp. So soon? 
Vict. T found him 
Sitting at supper by the tavern 
door, 
And, from a pitcher that he held 
aloft 


His whole arm’s length, drinking 
the blood-red wine. 
Hyp. What news from Court ? 
Vict. He brought this letter only, 
(Reads.) 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 


— 


Oh, cursed perfidy! Why did I let 
That lying tongue deceive me! 
Preciosa, 
Sweet Preciosa! how 
avenged! 
Hyp. What news is this, that 
makes thy cheek turn pale, 
And thy hand tremble ? 
Vict. Oh, most infamous! 
The Count of Lara is a worthless 
villain! 
_ Hyp. That is no news, forsooth. 


art thou 


Vict. He strove in vain 

To steal from me the jewel of my 
soul, 

The love of Preciosa. Not suc- 
ceeding, 

He swore to be revenged ; and set 
on foot 

A plot to ruin her, which has suc- 
ceeded. 


She has been hissed and hooted 
from the stage, 
Her reputation stained by slander- 
ous lies 
Too foul to speak of; and, once 
more a beggar, 
She roams a wanderer over God’s 
green earth, 
Housing with Gypsies! 
Hyp. To renew again 
The Age of Gold, and make the 
shepherd swains 
Desperate with love, like Gasper 
Gil’s Diana. 
Redit et Virgo! 
Vict. Dear Hypolito, 
How have I wronged that meek, 
confiding heart! 
I will go seek for her; and with 
my tears 
Wash out the wrong I’ve done 
her! 
Hyp. Oh, beware! 
Act not that folly o’er again. 
Vict. Ay, folly, 
Delusion, madness, call it what 
thou wilt, 
I will confess my weakness, — I 
still love her! 
-$till fondly love her! 


59 





(Enter the PADRE CURA.) 
Hyp. Tell us, Padre Cura, 
Who are these Gypsies in the 
neighborhood ? 
Padre C. Beltran Cruzado and 
his crew. 
Vict. Kind Heaven, 
I thank thee! She is found! is 
found again! 
Hyp. And have they with them 
a pale, beautiful girl, 
Called Preciosa ? 
Padre C. Ay, a pretty girl. 
The gentleman seems moved. 
Hyp. Yes, moved with hunger, 
He is half famished with this long 
day’s journey. 
Padre C. Then, pray you, come 
this way. The supper waits. 
[Exeunt. 


SCENE IV.—A wpost-house on the 
road to Segovia, not far from the 
village of Guadarrama. Enter 
CHISPA, cracking a whip, and 
singing the cachucha. 

Chispa. Halloo! Don Fulano! 
Let us have horses, and quickly. 
Alas, poor Chispa! what a dog’s 
life dost thou lead! I thought, 
when I left my old master Victo- 
rian, the student, to serve my new 
master Don Carlos, the gentleman, 
that I, too, should lead the life of a 
gentleman; should go to bed early, 
and get up late. For when the 
abbot plays cards, what can you 
expect of the friars? But, in run- 
ning away from the thunder, I 
have run into the lightning. Here 
I am in hot chase after my master 
and his Gypsy girl. And a good 
beginning of the week it is, as he 
said who was hanged on Monday 
morning. 


(Enter DON CARLOS.) 
Don C. Are not the horses ready 
yet? 
Chispa. I should think not, for 
the hostler seems to be asleep, 


60 


Ho! within there! Horses! horses! 
horses! (He knocks at the gate 
with his whip, and enter Mos- 
QUITO, putting on his jacket.) 

Mosq. Pray, have a little pa- 
tience. I’m not a musket. 

Chispa. Health and pistareens! 
I’m glad to see you come on dan- 
cing, padre! Pray, what’s the 
news? 

Mosq. You cannot have fresh 
horses; because there are none. 

Chispa. Cachiporra! Throw 
that bone to another dog. Do I 
look like your aunt? 

Mosq. No; she has a beard. 

Chispa. Go to! go to! 

Mosq. Are you from Madrid ? 

Chispa. Yes; and going to Es- 
tramadura. Get us horses. 

Mosq. What’s the news at 
Court? 

Chispa. Why, the latest news is, 
that I am going to set up a coach, 
and I have already bought the 
whip. 


(Strikes him round the legs.) 


Mosq. OL! oh! you hurt me! 

Don C. Enough of this folly. 
Let us have horses. (Gives money 
to Mosquito.) Itis almost dark: 
and we are in haste. But tell me, 
has a band of Gypsies passed this 
way of late? 

Mosq. Yes; and they are Still in 
the neighborhood. 

Don C. And where? 

Mosq. Across the fields yonder, 
in the woods near Guadarrama. 

[Eait. 

Don C. Now this is lucky. We 
will visit the Gypsy camp. 

Chispa. Are you not afraid of 
the evil eye? Have you a Stag’s 
horn with you? 

Don C. Fear not. We will pass 
the night at the village. 

Chispa. And sleep like the 
Squires of Hernan Daza, nine un- 
der one blanket. 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 


Don C. Thope we may find the 
Preciosa among them. 

Chispa. Among the Squires ? 

Don C. No; among the Gypsies, 
blockhead ! 

Chispa. I hope we may; for 
we are giving ourselves trouble 
enough on her account. Don’t 
you think so? However, there is 
no catching trout without wetting 
one’s trousers. Yonder come the 
horses. [Exeunt. 


SCENE V.— The Gypsy camp in 
theforest. Night. Gypsies work- 
ing at a forge. Others playing 
cards by the firelight. 


Gypsies (at the forge sing). 


On the top of a mountain I stand, 

With a crown of red gold in my hand, 

Wild Moors come trooping over the lea, 

Oh how from their fury shall I flee, flee, 
fiee ? 

Oh how from their fury shall I flee ? 


First Gypsy (playing). Down 
with your John-Dorados, my pi- 
geon. Down with your John-Do- 
rados, and let us make an end. 


Gypsies (at the forge sing). 


Loud sang the Spanish cavalier 
And thus his ditty ran ; 

God send the Gypsy lassie here 
And not the Gypsy man. 


First Gypsy (playing). There 
you are in your morocco! 

Second Gypsy. One more game, 
The Alcalde’s doves against the 
Padre Cura’s hew moon. 

First Gypsy. Have at you, Chire. 
lin. 

Gypsies (at the forge sing). 


At midnight, when the moon began 
To show her silver flame, 

There came to him no Gypsy man, 
The Gypsy lassie came. 


(Enter BELTRAN CRUZADO.) 


Cruz. Come hither, Murcigalle 
ros and Rastilleros; leave werk 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 


61 





leave play; listen to your orders 


for the night. (Speaking to the 
right.) You will get you to the 
village, mark you, by the stone 
cross. 

Gypsies. Ay! 

Cruz. (to the left). And you, by 
she pole with the hermit’s head 
upon it. 

Gypsies. Ay! 

Cruz. AS soon as you see the 

lanets are out, in with you, and be 
busy with the ten commandments, 
under the sly, and Saint Martin 
sleep. D’ ye hear ? 

Gypsies. Ay! 

Cruz. Keep your lanterns open, 
nd, if you see a goblin or a pa- 
agayo, take to your trampers, 
‘ineyards and Dancing John is 
he word. Am I comprehended? 

Gypsies. Ay! ay! 

Cruz. Away, then! 
(Zxeuntsever ally. CRUZADO walks 
| up the stage, and disappears 

among the trees. 

CIOSA.) 

Prec. How strangely gleams 

through the gigantic trees, 
he red light of the forge! Wild, 
beckoning shadows 
talk through the forest, ever and 
anon 
Rising and bending with the flick- 
ering flame, 

Then flitting into darkness! 

within me 

eres hopes and fears do beckon 
to each other, 

My brightest hopes giving dark 
fears a being 

4 the light doves the shadow. 







Enter PRE- 








So 


Woe is me! 
OW still it is about me, and how 
lonely! 
(BARTOLOME rushes in.) 
Bart. Ho! Preciosa! 


Prec. O Bartolomé ! 
Thou here 2? 

Bart. Lo! I am here. 

Pree. Whence comest thou? 





Bart. From the rough ridges of 
the wild Sierra, 
From caverns in the rocks, from 
hunger, thirst, 
And fever! Like a wild wolf to 
the sheepfold 
Come I for thee, my lamb. 
Prec. Oh, touch me not! 
The Count of Lara’s blood is on 
thy hands! 
The Count of Lara’s curse is on thy 
soul! 


Do not come near me! Pray, be- 
gone from here! 
Thou art in danger! They have 


set a price 
Upon thy head! 
Bart. Ay, and I’ve wandered 
long 
Among the mountains; 
many days 
Have seen no human face, save the 
rough swineherd’s. 
The wind and rain have been my 
sole companions. 
I shouted to them from the rocks 
thy name, 
And the loud echo sent it back to 
me, 
Till I grew mad. 
from thee, 
And Iam here! Betray me, if thou 
wilt. 
Prec. Betray thee? 
thee ? 
Bart. Preciosa ! 
I come for thee! for thee I thus 
brave death! 
Fly with me o’er the borders of 
this realm! 
Fly with me! 
Prec. Speak of that nomore. I 


and tor 


I could not stay 


I betray 


cannot. 
I’m thine no longer. 
Bart. Oh, recall the time 


When we were children! how we 
played together, 

How we grew up together; 
we plighted 

Our hearts unto each other, even 
in childhood! 


how 


62 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 





Fulfil thy promise, for the hour has 
come. 
I’m hunted from the kingdom, like 
_awolt! 
Fulfil thy promise. 
Prec. ’T was my father’s promise, 


Not mine. I never gave my heart 
to thee, 
Nor promised thee my hand! 
Bart. False tongue of woman! 
And heart more false! 
Prec. Nay, listen unto me. 
I will speak frankly. I have never 
loved thee ; 
I cannot love thee. 
fault, 
It is my destiny. 
man 
Restless and violent. What wouldst 
thou with me, 
A feeble girl, who have not long to 
live, 
Whose heart is broken? 
another wife, 
Better than I, and fairer; and let 
not 
Thy rash and headlong moods 
estrange her from thee. 
Thou art unhappy in this hopeless 
passion. 
I never sought thy love; never did 
aught 
To make thee love me. 
thee, 
And most of all I pity thy wild 
heart, 
That hurries thee to crimes and 
deeds of blood. 
Beware, beware of that. 
Bart. For thy dear sake 
I will be gentle. Thou shalt teach 
me patience. 
Prec. Then take this farewell, 
and depart in peace. 
Thou must not linger here. 
Bart. Come, come with me. 
Prec. Hark! I hear footsteps. 


This is not my 


THOU wart a: 


Seek 


Yet I pity 


Bart. I entreat thee, come! 
Prec. Away! It is in vain. 
Bart. Wilt thou not come ? 


Prec. Never! 


Bart. Then woe, eternal woe, 
upon thee! 
Thou shalt not be another’s. 
shalt die. [Eait. 
Prec. All holy angels keep me 
in this hour! 
Spirit of her who bore me, look — 
upon me! 
Mother of God, the glorified, pro- 
tect me! : 
Christ and the saints, be merciful 
unto me! 
Yet why should I fear death? 
What is it to die? 
To leave all disappointment, care, 
and sorrow, 
To leave all falsehood, treachery, 
and unkindness, 
All ignominy, suffering, and de- 
spair, 
And be at rest forever! 
heart, 
Be of good cheer! When thou 
shalt cease to beat, 
Then shalt thou cease to suffer and 
complain! 
(Enter VICTORIAN and HYPOLITO 
behind.) 
Vict. "Tis she! Behold, how 
beautiful she stands 
Under the tent-like trees ! 
Hyp. A woodland nymph! 
Vict. I pray thee, stand aside. 
Leave me. 
Hyp. 


Thou 


O dull 


Be wary, 


Do not betray thyself too soon. 


Vict. (disguising his voice). 
Hist! Gypsy! 

Prec. (aside, with emotion). That 
voice! that voice from hea- 
ven! Oh, speak again! 

Who is it calls? 

Vict. _A friend. 
Prec. (aside). *Tis he! ’Tis he? 

I thank thee, Heaven, that thou 
hast heard my prayer, 

And sent me this protector ! 
be strong, 

Be strong, my heart! I must dis 
semble here. 

False friend or true? 


Now 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 


63 





Vict. A true friend to the true; 


Fear not; come hither. 
you tell fortunes ? 

Prec. Not in the dark. Come 
nearer to the fire. 

Give me your hand. It is not 
crossed, I see. 

Vict. (putting a piece of gold 
into her hand). There is the 
cross. 

Prec. Is’t silver? 

Vict. No, *t is gold. 

Prec. There ’s a fair lady at the 
Court, who loves you, 

And for yoursélf alone. 

Vict. Fie! the old story! 

Tell me a better fortune for my 
money; 

Not this old woman’s tale! 

Prec. You are passionate ; 
And this same passionate humor 
in your blood 
Has marred your fortune. 

see it now; 

The line of life is crossed by many 
marks. 

Shame! shame! Oh, you have 
wronged the maid who loved 
you! 

How could you do it? 

Vict. I never loved a maid, 

For she I loved was then a maid 
no more. 

Prec. How know you that? 

Vict. A little bird in the air 

Whispered the secret. 

Prec. There, take back your 
gold! 

Your hand is cold, like a deceiver’s 
hand! 

There is no blessing in its char- 
ity! 

Make her your wife, for you have 
been abused ; 

And you shall mend your fortunes, 
mending hers. 

Vict.(aside). How like an angel’s 
speaks the tongue of wo- 
man, 

When pleading in another’s cause 
her own! 


So; can 


Yes; I 


That is a pretty ring upon your 
finger. 
Pray give it me. 
ring.) 
Prec. No; never from my hand 
Shall that be taken! 
Vict. Why, tt is but a ring. 
I'll give it back to you; or, if I 
keep it, 
Will give you gold to buy you 
twenty such. 
Prec. Why would you have this 
ring? 
Vict. A traveller’s fancy, 
A whim, and nothing more. I 
would fain Keep it 
As a memento of the Gypsy camp 
In Guadarrama, and the fortune- 
teller 
Who sent me back to wed a wid- 
owed maid. 
Pray, let me have the ring. 
Pree. No, never! never! 
I will not part with it, even when 
I die; 
But bid my nurse fold my pale 
fingers thus, 
That it may not fall from them. 
-T is a token 
Of a beloved friend, whois no more. 
Vict. How? dead? 
Prec. Yes; dead to me; and 
worse than dead. 
He Is estranged! And yet I keep 
this ring. 
I will rise with it from my grave 
hereafter, 
To prove to him that I was never 
false. 
Vict. (aside). Be still, my swell- 
ing heart! one moment, still! 
Why, *tis the folly of a love-sick 
girl. 
Come, give it me, or I will say ’tis 
mine, 
And that you stole it. 
Prec. Oh, you will not dare 
To utter such a falsehood! 
Vict. T not dare? 
Look in my face, and say if there 
is aught 


(Tries to take the 


64 


I have not dared, I would not dare 
for thee! 


(She rushes into his arms.) 


Prec. ‘Tis thou! ’tis thou! Yes; 
yes; my heart’s elected! 
My dearest-dear Victorian! 
soul’s heaven! 
Where hast thou been so long? 
Why didst thou leave me? 
Vict. Ask me not now, my dear- 
est Preciosa. 
Let me forget we ever have been 
parted! 
Prec. Hadst thou not come — 
Vict. I pray thee, do not chide 
me! 
Prec. I should have perished 
here among these Gypsies. 
Vict. Forgive me, sweet! for 
what I made thee suffer. 
Think’st thou this heart could feel 
a moment’s joy, 
Thou being absent? 
it not! 
Indeed, since that sad hour I have 
not slept, 
For thinking of the wrong I did 
to thee! 
Dost thou forgive me? Say, wilt 
thou forgive me? 
Prec. I have forgiven thee. Ere 
those words of anger 
Were in the book of Heaven writ 
down against thee, 
I had forgiven thee. 
Vict. I ’m the veriest fool 
That walks the earth, to have be- 
lieved thee false. 
It was the Count of Lara — 

Prec. That bad man 
Has worked me harm enough. 
Hast thou not heard — 

Vict. Ihave heardall. And yet 

speak on, speak on! 

Let me but hear thy voice, and I 
am happy; 

For every tone, like some sweet 
incantation, 

Calls up the buried past to plead 
for me. 


my 


Oh, believe 


THE SPANISH 


STUDENT 





See 


Speak, my beloved, speak into my 
heart, 
Whatever fills and agitates thine 
own. 
(They walk aside.) 

Hyp. All gentle quarrels in the 
pastoral poets, 

All passionate love-scenes in the 
best romances, 

All chaste embraces on the publie 
stage, 

All soft adventures, which the 
liberal stars 

Have winked at, as the natural 
course of things, 

Have been surpassed here by my 
friend, the student, 

And this sweet Gypsy lass, fair 
Preciosa! 

Prec. Sefior Hypolito! 
your hand. 

Pray, shall I tell your fortune? 

Hyp. Not to-night; 

For, should you treat me as you 
did Victorian, 

And send me back to marry maids 
forlorn, 

My wedding day would last from 
now till Christmas. 

Chispa (within). What ho! the 
Gypsies, ho! Beltran Cru- 
zado! 

Halloo! halloo! halloo! halloo! 
(Enters booted, with a whip and — 
lantern.) 

Vict. What now? 

Why such a fearful din? Hast 
thou been robbed ? 

Chispa. Ay, robbed and mur- 
dered; and good evening to 
you, 

My worthy masters. 

Vict. Speak; what brings thee | 
here? 

Chispa (to PRECIOSA). Good 
newsfromCourt; goodnews! 
Beltran Cruzado, 

The Count of the Calés, is not your 
father, 

But your true father has returned 
to Spain 


I kiss 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 


=———. 


Laden with wealth. You are no 
more a Gypsy. 
Vict. Strange asa Moorish tale! 
Chispa. And we have all 
Been drinking at the tavern to 
your health, 
As wells drink in November, when 
it rains. 
Vict. Where is the gentleman ? 
Chispa. As the old song says, 
His body is in Segovia, 
His soul is in Madrid. 


Prec. Is this a dream? Oh, if it 
be a dream, 
Let me sleep on, and do not wake 
_me yet! 
Repeat thy story! 
deceived ! 


Say I’m not 


Say that I do not dream! I am 
awake; 

This is the Gypsy camp; this is 
Victorian, 


And this his friend, Hypolito! 
Speak ! speak ! 
Let me not wake and find it all a 
dream ! 
Vict. It is a dream, sweet child! 
a waking dream, 
A blissful certainty, a vision bright 
Of that rare happiness, which even 
on earth 
Heaven gives to those it loves. 
Now art thou rich, 
As thou wast ever beautiful and 
good; 
And I am now the beggar. 
Prec. (giving him her hand). I 
have still 
A hand to give. 
Chispa (aside). And I have two 
to take. 
T°’ve heard my grandmother say, 
that Heaven gives almonds 
To those who have no teeth. 
That ’s nuts to crack, 
I ’ve teeth to spare, but where 
shall I find almonds ? 
Vict. What more of this strange 
story ? 


Chispa. Nothing more. 








65 





Your friend, Don Carlos, is now at 
the village 

Showing to Pedro Crespo, the Al- 
calde, 

The proofs of what I tell you. 
The old hag, 

Who stole you in your childhood, 
has confessed ; 

And probably they ‘ll hang her for 
the crime, 

To make the celebration more 
complete. 

Vict. No; let it be a day of gen- 

eral joy; 

Fortune comes well to all, that 
comes not late. 

Now let us join Don Carlos. 

Hyp. So farewell, 

The student’s wandering life! 
Sweet serenades, 

Sung under ladies’ windows in the 
night, 

And all that makes vacation beau- 
tiful! 

To you, ye cloistered shades of 
Alcala, 

To you, ye radiant visions of ro- 
mance, 

Written in books, but here sur- 
passed by truth, 

The Bachelor Hypolito returns, 

And leaves the Gypsy with the 
Spanish Student. 


SCENE VI.—- A pass in the Gua- 
darrama mountains. Harly 
morning. A muleteer crosses 
the stage, sitting sideways on 
his mule, and lighting a paper 
cigar with flint and steel. 


SONG. 
If thou art sleeping, maiden, 
Awake and open thy door, 
'T is the break of day, and we must 
away 
O’er meadow, and mount, and moor. 


Wait not to find thy slippers, 
But come with thy naked feet ; 
We shall have to pass through the dewy 
grass, 
And waters wide and fleet. 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 





(Disappears down the pass. Enter 
a Monk. A Shepherd appears 
on the rocks above.) 

Monk. Ave Maria, gratia plena. 
Dla! good man! 

Shep. Olé! 

Monk. Is this the road to Sego- 
via? 

Shep. It is, your reverence. 

Monk. How far is it? 

Shep. I do not know. 

Monk. What is that yonder in 
the valley ? 

Shep. San Ildefonso. 

Monk. A long way to breakfast. 

Shep. Ay, marry. 

Dionk. Are there robbers in 
these mountains ? 

Shep. Yes,and worse than that. 

Monk. What? 

Shep. Wolves. 

Monk. Santa Maria! Come with 
me to San Ildefonso, and thou 
shalt be well rewarded. 

Shep. What wilt thou give me? 

Monk. An Agnus Dei and my 
benediction. 

(They disappear. A mounted Con- 
trabandista passes, wrapped in 
his cloak, and a gun at his sad- 
dle-bow. He goes down the pass 
singing.) 


SONG. 


Worn with speed is my good steed, 
And I march me hurried, worried; 
Onward, caballito mio, 

With the white star in thy forehead ! 
Onward, for here comes the Ronda, 
And I hear their rifles crack! 

Ay, jaléo! Ay, ay, jaléo! 

Ay, jaléo! They cross our track. 


(Song dies away. Enter PRE- 
CIOSA, on horseback, attended 
by VICTORIAN, HYPOLITO, DON 
CARLOS, and CHISPA, on foot 
and armed.) 


Vict. This is the highest point. 
Here let us rest. 
See, Preciosa, see how all about 
us 


Kneeling, like hooded friars, the 
misty mountains 

Receive the benediction of the 
sun! 

O glorious sight! 


Pree. Most beautiful indeed) 
Hyp. Most wonderful! 
Vict. And in the vale below, 
Where yonder steeples flash like 
lifted halberds, 
San Ildefonso, from its noisy bel- 
fries, 
Sends up a salutation to the morn, 
As if an army smote their brazen 
shields, 
And shouted victory ! 
Prec. And which way lies 
Segovia? 
Vict. Ata great distance yonder. 
Dost thou not see it? 
Prec. No. I do not see it. 
Vict. The merest flaw that dents 
the horizon’s edge, 
There, yonder! 
Hyp. °T is a notable old town, 
Boasting an ancient Roman aque- 
duct, 
And an Alcazar, builded by the 
Moors, 
Wherein, you may remember, poor 
Gil Blas 
Was fed on Pan del Rey. Oh, 
many a time 
Out of its grated windows have I 
looked 
Hundreds of feet plumb down to 
the Eresma, 
That, like a serpent through the 
valley creeping, 
Glides at its foot. 
Pree. Oh yes! I see it now, 
Yet rather with my heart than 
with mine eyes, 
So faint itis. And allmy thoughts 
sail thither, 
Freighted with prayers and hopes, 
and forward urged 
Against all stress of accident, as 
in 
The Eastern Tale, against the 
wind and tide 


THE BELFRY OF BRUGES 


67 





Great ships were drawn to the 
Magnetic Mountains, 
And there were wrecked, and per- 
ished in the sea! (She weeps.) 
Vict. O gentle spirit! Thou 
didst bear unmoved 
Blasts of adversity and frosts of 
fate! 
But the first ray of sunshine that 
falls on thee 
Melts thee to tears! 
weary heart 
Lean upon mine! and it shall faint 
no more, 
Nor thirst, nor hunger; 
comforted 
And filled with my affection. 
Pree. Stay no longer! 
My father waits. Methinks I see 
him there, 
Now looking from the window, 
and now watching 
Each sound of wheels or footfall in 
the street, 
And saying, ‘Hark! she comes!’ 
O father! father! 
(They descend the pass. 
remains behind.) 
Chispa. I have a father, too, 
but he is a dead one. Alas and 
alack-a-day! Poor was I born, 


Oh, let thy 


but be 


CHISPA 


and poor do I remain. I neither 
win nor lose. Thus I wag through 
the world, half the time on foot, 
and the other half walking; and 
always aS merry as a thunder- 
storm in the night. And so we 
plough along, as the fly said to the 
ox. Who knows what may hap, 
pen? Patience, and shuffle the 
ecards! I am not yet so bald that 
you can see my brains; and per- 
haps, after all, | shall some day go 
to Rome, and come back Saint 
Peter. Benedicite! (eat. 


(A pause. Then enter BARTOLOME: 
wildly, as if in pursuit, with a 
carbine in his hand.) 

Bart. They passed this way. I 
hear their horses’ hoofs! 

Yonder I see them! Come, sweet 

caramillo, 

This serenade shall be the Gypsy’s 

last! 
(Fires down the pass.) 

Ha! ha! Well whistled, my sweet 

caramillo ! 

Well whistled !—TI have missed 

her!— Omy God! 

(The shot is returned. 

LOME falls.) 


BARTO- 


* 


fee DELLE RY..OF BRUGES AND: OTHER 


POEMS 
CARILLON Then, with deep sonorous 
clangor 10 
IN the ancient town of Bruges, Calmly answering their sweet 
In the quaint old Flemish city, anger, 
As the evening shades descend-| When the wrangling bells had 
ed, ended, 


Low and loud and sweetly blended, 
Low at times and loud at times, 
And changing like a poet’s rhymes, 
Rang the beautiful wild chimes 
From the Belfry in the market 

Of the ancient town of Bruges. 


Slowly struck the clock eleven, 
And, from out the silent heaven, 
Silence on the town descended. 
Silence, silence everywhere, 

On the earth and in the air, 

Save that footsteps here and there 


68 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES 





— 


Of some burgher home returning, | Under its curtains cannot hear, 
By the street lamps faintly burn- | And by day men go their ways, 


ing, zo | Hearing the musie as they pass, 
For a moment woke the echoes But deeming it no more, alas! 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. Than the hollow sound of brass. 
Yet perchance a sleepless wight, 
But amid my broken slumbers Lodging at some humble inn 5< 


till I heard those magic numbers, | In the narrow lanes of life, 
As they loud proclaimed the flight | When the dusk and hush of night 
And stolen marches of the night; Shut out the incessant din 
Till their chimes in sweet collision | Of daylight and its toil and strife, 
Mingled with each wandering | May listen with a calm delight 





vision, To the poet’s melodies, 
Mingled with the fortune-telling Till he hears, or dreams he hears, 
Gypsy-bands of dreams and/ Intermingled with the song, 

fancies, 30! Thoughts that he has cherished 
Which amid the waste expanses long; 
Of the silent land of trances Hears amid the chime and sing- 
Have their solitary dwelling; ing 60 
All else seemed asleep in Bruges, | The bells of his own village ring 
In the quaint old Flemish city. ing, 

And wakes, and finds his slumber. 

And I thought how like these ous eyes 

chimes Wet with most delicious tears. 
Are the poet’s airy rhymes, 
All his rhymes and roundelays, Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay 
His conceits, and songs, and dit-| In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Blé, 

ties, Listening with a wild delight 
From the belfry of his brain, 40| To the chimes that, through the 
Scattered downward, though in night, 

vain, Rang their changes from the 
On the roofs and stones of cities ! Belfry 
For by night the drowsy ear Of that quaint old Flemish city. 


THE BELFRY OF BRUGES 


In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown ; 
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o’er the town. 


As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood, 
And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood. 


Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapors 


gray, 
Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay. 


At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there, 
Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air 


Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour, 
But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower. 


THE BELFRY OF BRUGES 69 





From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high; 
And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky. 


Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times, 
With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes, 


Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the 
choir ; 
And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar. 


Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain; 
They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again; 


All the Foresters of Flanders, — mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer, 
Lyderick du Bueq and Cressy, Philip, Guy de Dampierre. 


I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of old; 
Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece of 
Gold; 


Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies ; 
Ministers from twenty nations ; more than royal pomp and ease. 


I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground; 
I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound; 


And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen, 
And the arméd guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between 


I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold, 
Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold; 


Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west, 
Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon’s nest. 


And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote; 
And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin’s throat; 


Till the bell of Ghent responded o’er lagoon and dike of sand, 
‘Tam Roland! Iam Roland! there is victory in the land!’ 


Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city’s roar 
Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once 
more. 


Hours had passed away like minutes ; and, before I was aware, 
Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square. 


70 


THE BELFRY OF BRUGES 





A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE 


THis is the place. 
steed, 
Let me review the scene, 
And summon from the shadowy 
Past 
The forms that once have been. 


Stand still, my 


The Past and Present here unite 
Beneath Time’s flowing tide, 

Like footprints hidden by a brook, 
But seen on either side. 


Here runs the highway to the 
town; 
There the green lane descends, 
Through which I walked to church 
with thee, 
O gentlest of my friends! 


The shadow of the linden-trees 
Lay moving on the grass; 
Between them and the moving 
boughs, 
A shadow, thou didst pass. 


Thy dress was like the lilies, 
And thy heart as pure as they: 

One of God’s holy messengers 
Did walk with me that day. 


I saw the branches of the trees 
Bend down thy touch to meet, 
The clover-blossoms in the grass 

Rise up to kiss thy feet. 


‘Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting 
cares, 
Of earth and folly born!? 
Solemnly sang the village choir 
On that sweet Sabbath morn. 


Through the closed blinds the 
golden sun 
Poured in a dusty beam, 
Like the celestial ladder seen 
By Jacob in his dream. 


And ever and anon, the wind 
Sweet-scented with the hay, 


Turned o’er the hymn-book’s flut 
tering leaves 
That on the window lay. 


Long was the good man’s sermon, 
Yet it seemed not so to me; 
For he spake of Ruth the beauti- 
ful, 
And still I thought of thee. 


Long was the prayer he uttered, 
Yet it seemed not so to me; 
For in my heart I prayed witk 
him, 
And still I thought of thee. 


But now, alas! the place seems 
changed; 
Thou art no longer here: 
Part of the sunshine of the scene 
With thee did disappear. 


Though thoughts, deep-rooted in 
. my heart, 
Like pine-trees dark and high, 
Subdue the light of noon, and 
breathe 
A low and ceaseless sigh ; 


This memory brightens o’er the 
past, 
As when the sun, concealed 
Behind some cloud that near us 
hangs, 
Shines on a distant field. 


THE ARSENAL AT SPRING- 
FIELD 
THIS is the Arsenal. From floor 
to ceiling, 
Like a huge organ, rise the bur 
nished arms ; 
But from their silent pipes no an 
them pealing 
Startles the villages with strange 
alarms. 


Ah! what a sound will rise, how 
wild and dreary, 


THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD 71 





‘When the death-angel touches 
those swift keys! 
What loud lament and dismal 
Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful 
symphonies! 


I hear even now the infinite fierce 
chorus, 
The cries of agoay, the endless 
groan, 
Which, through the ages that have 
gone before us, 
In long reverberations reach our 
own. 


On helm and harness rings the 
Saxon hammer, 

Through Cimbric forest roars 
the Norseman’s song, 
loud, amid the universal 
clamor, 
O’er distant deserts sounds the 

Tartar gong. 


And 


I hear the Florentine, who from 
his palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with 
dreadful din, 
And Aztec priests upon their teo- 
callis 
Beat the wild war-drums made 
of serpent’s skin; 


The tumult of each sacked and 
burning village ; 
The shout that every prayer for 
mercy drowns; 
The soldiers’ revels in the midst of 
pillage; 
The wail of famine in belea- 
guered towns; 


The bursting shell, the gateway 
wrenched asunder, 
The rattling musketry, the clash- 
ing blade; 


And ever and anon, in tones of 
thunder 
The diapason of the cannonade. 


Is it, O man, with such discordant 
noises, 
With such accursed instruments 
as these, 
Thou drownest Nature’s sweet and 
kindly voices, 
And jarrest the celestial harmo- 
nies ? 


Were half the power that fills the 
world with terror, 
Were half the wealth bestowed 
on camps and courts, 
Given to redeem the human mind 
from error, 
There were no need of arsenals 
or forts : 


The warrior’s name would be « 
name abhorréd! 
And every nation, that should 
lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its 
forehead 
Would wear forevermore the 
curse of Cain! 


Down the dark future, through 
long generations, 
The echoing sounds grow fainter 
and then cease ; 
And likea bell, with solemn, sweet 
vibrations, 
I hear, once more the voice of 
Christ say, ‘ Peace!’ 


Peace! and no longer from its 
brazen portals 
The blast of War’s great organ 
shakes the skies! 
But beautiful as songs of the im- 
mortals, 
The holy melodies of love arise. 


72 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES 





NUREMBERG 


Iw the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands 
Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands, 


Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, 
Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them 
throng: 


Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, 
Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old; 


And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, 
That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. 


In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, 
Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde’s hand; 10 


On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days 
Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian’s praise. 


Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art: 
Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common 
mart; 


And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, 
By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. 


In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust, 
And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust; 


Tn the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, 
Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. 26 


Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, 
Lived and labored Albrecht Diirer, the Evangelist of Art ; 


Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, 
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. 


Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies; 
Dead he is not, but departed, — for the artist never dies. 


Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, 
That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air! 


Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal 
lanes, 
Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains. 3a 


From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild, 
Building nests in Fame’s great temple, as in spouts the swallows build, 


THE NORMAN 


BARON 73 





As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, 
And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil’s chime ; 


Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy 


bloom 


In the forge’s dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. 


Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, 
Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed. 


But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, 
And a garland in the window, and his face above the door; 40 


Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman’s song, 
As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long. 


And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, 
Quafiing ale from pewter tankards, in the master’s antique chair. 


Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye 
Wave these mingled shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. 


Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world’s regard ; 
But thy painter, Albrecht Dtirer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler bard. 


Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, 
As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless 


lay: 


50 


Gathering from the pavement’s crevice, as a floweret of the soil, 
The nobility of labor, — the long pedigree of toil. 


THE NORMAN BARON 


IN his chamber, weak and dying, 
Was the Norman baron lying ; 
Loud, without, the tempest thun- 
dered, : 
And the castle-turret shook. 


In this fight was Death the gainer, 
Spite of vassal and retainer, 
And the lands his sires had plun- 
dered, 
Written in 
Book. 


the Doomsday 


By his bed a monk was seated, 

Who in humble voice repeated 

Many a prayer and pater-noster, 
From the missal on his knee ; 


And, amid the tempest pealing, 
Sounds of bells came faintly steal- 
ing, 
Bells, that from the neighboring 
kloster 
Rang for the Nativity. 


In the hall, the serf and vassal 
Held, that night, their Christmas 
wassail; 
Many a carol, old and saintly, 
Sang the minstrels and the 
waits; 


And so loud these Saxon gleemen 
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, 
That the storm was heard but 
faintly, 
Knocking at the castle-gates, 





Tillat length the lays they chanted 


Reached the chamber  terror- 
haunted, 
Where the monk, withaccents holy, 


Whispered at the baron’s ear. 


Tears upon his eyelids glistened, 

As he paused awhile and listened, 

And the dying baron slowly 
Turned his weary head to hear. 


* Wassail for the kingly stranger 

Born and cradled in a manger! 

King, like David, priest, like Aaron, 
Christ is born to set us free!’ 


And the lightning showed the 
sainted 
Figures on the casement painted, 
And exclaimed the shuddering 
baron, 
‘Miserere, Domine!’ 


In that hour of deep contrition 
He beheld, with clearer vision, 
Through all outward show and 
fashion, 
Justice, the Avenger, rise. 


All the pomp of earth had van- 
ished, 

Falsehood and deceit were ban- 
ished, 

Reason spake more loud than pas- 
sion, 

And the truth wore no dis- 
guise. 


Every vassal of his banner, 
Every serf born to his manor, 
All those wronged and wretched 
creatures, 
By his hand were freed again. 


And, as on the sacred missal 

He recorded their dismissal, 

Death relaxed his iron features, 
Andthe monk replied, ‘Amen!’ 


Many centuries have been num- 
bered 


THE BELFRY OF BRUGES 





— 


Since in death the baron slun« 


bered 
By the convent’s sculptured por. 
tal, 
Mingling with the common 
dust : 


But the good deed, through the 
ages 
Living in historic pages, 
Brighter grows and gleams im- 
mortal, 
Unconsumed by moth or rust. 


RAIN IN SUMMER 


How beautiful is the rain! 
After the dust and heat, 

In the broad and fiery street, 
In the narrow lane, 

How beautiful is the rain! 


How it clatters along the roofs, 

Like the tramp of hoofs! 

How it gushes and struggles out 

From the throat of the overflowing 
spout! 


Across the window-pane 10 

It pours and pours; 

And swift and wide, 

With a muddy tide, 

Like a river down the gutter 
roars 

The rain, the welcome rain! 


The sick man from his chamber 
looks 

At the twisted brooks; 

He can feel the cool 

Breath of each little pool; 

His fevered brain 20 

Grows calm again, 

And he breathes a blessing on the 
rain, 


From the neighboring school 
Come the boys, 

With more than their wonted noise 
And commotion ; 


LOWA CHILD 


75 





And down the wet streets 

Sail their mimic fleets, 

Till the treacherous pool 

Ingulfs them in its whirling 30 
And turbulent ocean. 


fn the country, on every side, 

Where far and wide, 

Like a leopard’s tawny and spot- 
ted hide, 

Stretches the plain, 

To the dry grass and the drier 
grain 

How welcome is the rain! 


In the furrowed land 

The toilsome and patient oxen 
stand; 

Lifting tbe yoke - encumbered 
head, 40 

With their dilated nostrils spread, 

They silently inhale 

The clover-scented gale, 

And the vapors that arise 

From the well-watered and smok- 
ing soil. 

For this rest in the furrow after 
toil 

Their large and lustrous eyes 

Seem to thank the Lord, 

More than man’s spoken word. 


Near at hand, 50 

From under the sheltering trees, 

The farmer sees 

His pastures, and his fields of 
grain, 

As they bend their tops 

To the numberless beating drops 

Of the incessant rain. 

He counts it as no sin 

That he sees therein 

Only his own thrift and gain. 


These, and far more than these, 60 
The Poet sees! 

He can behold 

Aquarius old 

Walking the fenceless fields of air: 
And from each ample fold 

Of the clouds about him rolled 


Scattering everywhere 
The showery rain, 
As the farmer scatters his grain. 


He can behold 70 

Things manifold 

That have not yet been wholly 
told ;— 

Have not been wholly sung nor 
said. 

For his thought, that never stops. 

Follows the water-drops 

Down to the graves of the dead, 

Down through chasms and gulfs 
profound, 

To the dreary fountain-head 

Of lakes and rivers under ground; 

And sees them, when the rain is 
done, 80 

On the bridge of colors seven 

Climbing up once more to heaven, 

Opposite the setting sun. 


Thus the Seer, 

With vision clear, 

Sees forms appear and disappear, 
In the perpetual round of strange, 
Mysterious change 

From birth to death, from death to 


birth, 
From earth to heaven, from heaven 
to earth ; go 


Till glimpses more sublime 

Of things unseen before, 

Unto his wondering eyes reveal 

The Universe, as an immeasurable 
wheel 

Turning forevermore 

In the rapid and rushing river of 
Time. 


TO A CHILD 


DEAR child! how radiant on thy 
mother’s knee, 

With merry-making eyes and joc- 
und smiles, 

Thou gazest at the painted tiles, 

Whose figures grace, 

With many a grotesque form and 
face, 


76 





The ancient chimney of thy nur- 
sery! 

The lady with the gay macaw, 

The dancing girl, the grave bashaw 

With bearded lip and chin; 

And, leaning idly o’er his gate, 10 

Beneath the imperial fan of state, 

The Chinese mandarin. 


With what a look of proud com- 
mand 

Thou shakest in thy little hand 

The coral rattle with its silver 
bells, 

Making a merry tune! 

Thousands of years in Indian seas 

That coral grew, by slow degrees, 

Until some deadly and wild mon- 


soon 
Dashed it on Coromandel’s sand! 
Those silver bells 21 


Reposed of yore, 

As shapeless ore, 

Far down in the deep -sunken 
wells 

Of darksome mines, 

Insome obscure and sunless place, 

Beneath huge Chimborazo’s base, 

Or Potosi’s o’erhanging pines! 

And thus for thee, O little child, 

Through many a danger and es- 


cape, 30 
The tall ships passed the stormy 
cape; 


For thee in foreign lands remote, 

Beneath a burning, tropic clime, 

The Indian peasant, chasing the 
wild goat, 

Himself as swift and wild, 

In falling, clutched the frail ar- 
bute, 

The fibres of whose shallow root, 

Uplifted from the soil, betrayed 

The silver veins beneath it laid, 

The buried treasures of the miser, 
Time. 40 


But, lo! thy door is left ajar! 
Thou hearest footsteps from afar ! 
And, at the sound, 

Thou turnest round 


THE BELFRY OF BRUGES 


eel 


With quick and questioning eyes, 

Like one, who, in a foreign land, 

Beholds on every hand 

Some source of wonder and sur 
prise! 

And, restlessly, impatiently, 

Thou strivest, strugglest, to Le 
free. 50 


The four walls of thy nursery 

Are now like prison walls to 
thee. 

No more thy mother’s smiles, 

No more the painted tiles, 

Delight thee, nor the playthings 
on the floor, 

That won thy little, beating heart 
before ; 

Thou strugglest for the open door. 


Through these once solitary halls 

Thy pattering footstep falls, 

The sound of thy merry voice 6a 

Makes the old walls 

Jubilant, and they rejoice 

With the joy of thy young heart, 

O’er the light of whose gladness 

No shadows of sadness 

From the sombre background of 
memory start. 


Once, ah, once, within these walls, 

One whom memory oft recalls, 

The Father of his Country, dwelt. 

And yonder meadows broad and 
damp 70 | 

The fires of the besieging camp 

Encireled with a burning belt. 

Up and down these echoing stairs, 

Heavy with the weight of cares, 

Sounded his majestic tread; 

Yes, within this very room 

Sat he in those hours of gloom, 

Weary both in heart and head. 


But what are these grave thoughts | 
to thee ? 

Out, out! into the open air! 8a: 

Thy only dream is liberty, - 

Thou carest little how or where. 

I see thee eager at thy play, 


EOvA? CHILD 





Now shouting to the apples on the 
tree, 

With cheeks as round and red as 
they ; 

{nd now among the yellow stalks, 

Among the flowering shrubs and 
plants, 

As restless as the bee. 

Along the garden walks, 

The tracks of thy small carriage- 


wheels I trace ; go 
And see at every turn how they 
efface 


Whole villages of sand-roofed 
tents, 

That rise like golden domes 

Above the cavernous and secret 
homes 

Of wandering and nomadic tribes 
of ants. 

Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, 

Who, with thy dreadful reign, 

Dost persecute and overwhelm 

These hapless Troglodytes of thy 
realin! 


What! tired already! with those 
suppliant looks, 100 

And voice more beautiful than a 
poet’s books 

Or murmuring sound of water as it 
flows, 

Thou comest back to parley with 
repose! 

This rustic seat in the old apple- 
tree, 

With its o’erhanging golden can- 
op 

Ofleaves illuminate with autumnal 
hues, 

And shining with the argent light 
of dews, 

Shall for a season be our place of 
rest. 

Beneath us, like an oriole’s pend- 
ent nest, 

From which the laughing birds 
have taken wing, 110 

By thee abandoned, hangs thy 

: vacant swing. 


| 





77 





Dream-like the waters of the river 
gleam ; 

A sailless vessel drops adown the 
stream, 

And like it, to a sea as wide and 
deep, 

Thou driftest gently down the 
tides of sleep. 


O child! O new-born denizen 

Of life’s great city! on thy head 

The glory of the morn is shed, 

Like a celestial benison ! 

Here at the portal thou 
stand, 

And with thy little hand 

Thou openest the mysterious gate 

Into the future’s undiscovered 
land. 

I see its valves expand, 

As at the touch of Fate! 

Into those realms of love and hate, 

Into that darkness blank and 
drear, 

By some prophetic feeling taught, 

I launch the bold, adventurous 
thought, 

Freighted with hope and fear; 130 


dost 


120 


|. AS upon subterranean streams, 


In caverns unexplored and dark, 

Men sometimes launch a fragile 
bark, 

Laden with flickering fire, 

And watch its swift-receding 
beams, 

Until at length they disappear, 

And in the distant dark expire. 


By what astrology of fear or hope 
Dare I to east thy horoscope! 
Like the new moon thy life ap- 
pears ; 140 
A little strip of silver light, 
And widening outward into night 
The shadowy disk of future years ; 
And yet upon its outer rim, 
A luminous circle, faint and dim, 
And searcely visible to us here, 
Rounds and completes the perfect 
sphere: 


78 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES 





A prophecy and intimation, 
A pale and feeble adumbration, 
Of the great world of light, that 


. lies 
Behind all human destinies. 


150 


Ah! if thy fate, with anguish 
fraught, 
Should be to wet the dusty soil 
With the hot tears and sweat of 
toil, — 
struggle 
‘thought, 
Until the overburdened brain, 
Weary with labor, faint with 
pain, 
Like a jarred pendulum, retain 
Only its motion, not its power, — 
Remember, in that perilous hour, 


To with imperious 


When most afflicted and op- 
pressed, 161 

From labor there shall come forth 
rest. 


And if a more auspicious fate 

On thy advancing steps await, 

Still let it ever be thy pride 

To linger by the laborer’s side; 

With words of sympathy or 
song 

To cheer the dreary march along 

Of the great army of the poor, 

Over desert sand, o’er dangerous 
moor. 

Nor to thyself the task shall be 

Withont reward; for thou shalt 
learn 

The wisdom early to discern 

True beauty in utility ; 

As great Pythagoras of yore, 

Standing beside the blacksmith’s 
door, 

And hearing the hammers, as they 
smote 

The anvils with a different note, . 


170 


Stole from the varying tones, that | 


hung 
Vibrant on every iron tongue, 180 
The secret of the sounding wire, 
And formed the seven-chorded 
lyre. 


Fnough! I willnot play the Seer; 

I will no longer strive to ope 

The mystic volume, where appear 

The herald Hope, forerunning 
Fear. 

And Fear, the pursnivant of Hope. 

Thy destiny remains unteld; 

For, like Acestes’ shaft of old, 

The swift thought kindles as it 
flies, 190 

And burns to ashes in the skies. 


THE OCCULTATION OF 
ORION 


I SAW, as in a dream sublime, 

The balance in the hand of Time. 

Over East and West its beam im. 
pended; 

And Day, with all its hours of 
light 

Was slowly sinking out of sight, 

While, opposite, the scale of Night 

Silently with the stars ascended. 


Like the astrologers of eld, 

In that bright vision I beheld 

Greater and deeper mysteries. . 10 

I saw, with its celestial keys, 

Its chords of air, its frets of fire, 

The Samian’s great Aolian lyre, 

Rising through all its sevenfold 

bars, 
From earth unto the fixéd stars. 
And through the dewy atmosphere, 
Not only could I see, but hear, 
Its wondrous and harmonious 
strings, 
sweet vibration, 
sphere, 
Dian’s circle light and 
near, 20 
Onward to vaster and wider rings, 
Where, chanting through his beard 
of snows, 

Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes, 

And down the sunless realms of 
space 

Reverberates the thunder of hig 
bass. 


In sphere by 


From 


THE BRIDGE 


79 





Beneath the sky’s triumphal arch 
This music sounded like a march, 
And with its chorus seemed to be 
Preluding some great tragedy. 
Sirius was rising in the east; 30 
And, slow ascending one by one, 
The kindling constellations shone. 
Begirt with many a blazing star, 
Stood the great giant Algebar, 
Orion, hunter of the beast! 
His sword hung gleaming by his 
side, 
And, on his arm, the lion’s hide 
Seattered across the midnight air 
The golden radiance of its hair. 


The moon was pallid, but not 
faint; 40 

And beautiful as some fair saint, 

Serenely moving on her way 

In hours of trial and dismay. 

As if she heard the voice of God, 

Unharmed with naked feet she trod 

Upon the hot and burning stars, 

As on the glowing coals and bars, 

That were to prove her strength 
and try 

Her holiness and her purity. 


Thus moving on, with silent pace, 

And triumph in her sweet, pale 
face, 51 

She reached the station of Orion. 

Aghast he stood in strange alarm! 

And suddenly from his out- 
stretched arm 

Down fell the red skin of the lion 

Into the river at his feet. 

His mighty club no longer beat 

The forehead of the bull; but he 

Reeled as of yore beside the sea, 

When, blinded by GEnopion, 60 

He sought the blacksmith at his 
forge, 

And, climbing up the mountain 
gorge, 

Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun. 


Then, through the silence over- 
head, 
An angel with a trumpet said, 


‘Forevermore, forevermore, 

The reign of violence is o’er!’ 

And, like an instrument that 
flings 

Its music on another’s strings, 

The trumpet of the angel cast 70 

Upon the heavenly lyre its blast, 

And on from sphere to sphere the 
words 

Reéchoed down 
chords, — 

‘ Forevermore, forevermore, 

The reign of violence is o’er!? 


the burning 


THE BRIDGE 


I sTooD on the bridge at midnight, 
As the clocks were striking the 
hour, 
And the moon rose o’er the city, 
Behind the dark church-tower, 


I saw her bright reflection 
In the waters under me, 
Like a golden goblet falling 
And sinking into the sea. 


And far in the hazy distance 
Of that lovely night in June, 
The blaze of the flaming furnace 
Gleamed redder than the moon. 


Among the long, black rafters 
The wavering shadows lay, 
And the current that came from 
the ocean 
Seemed to lift and bear them 
away; 


As, sweeping and eddying through 
them, 
Rose the belated tide, 
And, streaming into the moon-. 
light, 
The seaweed floated wide. 


And like those waters rushing 
Among the wooden piers, 

A flood of thoughts came o’er me 
That filled my eyes with tears. 


80 


THE BELFRY OF BRUGES 





How often, oh how often, 
In the days that had gone by, 
IT had stood on that bridge at mid- 
night _ 
And gazed on that wave and 
sky! 


How often, oh how often, 
I had wished that the ebbing 
tide 
Would bear me away on its bosom 
O’er the ocean wild and wide! 


For my heart was hot and rest- 
less, 
And my life was full of care, 
And the burden laid upon me 
Seemed greater than I could 
bear. 


But now it has fallen from me, 
It is buried in the sea; 

And only the sorrow of others 
Throws its shadow over me. 


_ Yet whenever I cross the river 
On its bridge with wooden piers, 


Like the odor of brine from the 
ocean 

Comes the thought of other 
years. 


And I think how many thousands 
Of care-encumbered men, 
Each bearing his bu.den of sor- 
row, 
Have crossed the bridge since 
then. 


I see the long procession 
Still passing to and fro, 

The young heart hot and restless, 
And the old subdued and slow! 


And forever and forever, 
As long as the river flows, 

As long as the heart has passions, 
As long as life has woes; 


The moon and its broken reflec. 
tion 
And its shadows shall appear, 
As the symbol of love in heaven, 
And its wavering image here. 


TO THE DRIVING CLOUD 


GuLoomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omahas; 

Gloomy and dark as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken! 
Wrapped in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city’s 
Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers 
Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their footprints. 


What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints? 


How canst thou walk these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the 
prairies ? 

How canst thou breathe this air, who hast breathed the sweet air of 
the mountains ? 

Ah! ’tis in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge 

Looks of disdain in return, and question these walls and these pave- 
ments, 10 

Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while down-trodden millions 

Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, 
too, 

Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division! 


Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash! 
There as a monareh thou reignest. In antumn the leaves of the mapl¢ 


SONGS 


82 





Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer 
Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their 


branches. 


There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses! 

There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elkhorn, 

Or by the roar of the Running- Water, or where the Omaha 20 
Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of the Black- 


feet! 


Hark! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous 


deserts ? 


Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth, 

Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the thunder, 
And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red man ? 

Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the Foxes, 
Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of Behemoth, 

Lo! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri’s 
Merciless current! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the camp-fires 
Gleam through the night; and the cloud of dust in the gray of the day- 


break 


30 


Marks not the buffalo’s track, nor the Mandan’s dexterous horse-race ; 
It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches! 
Ha! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of the 


east-wind, 


Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy wigwams! 


SONGS 
THE DAY IS DONE 


THE day is done, and the dark- 
ness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 
As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 


I see the lights of the village 
Gleam through the rain and the 
mist, 
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er 
me 
That my soul cannot resist: 


A feeling of sadness and longing, 
That is not akin to pain, 

And resembles sorrow only 
As the mist resembles the rain. 


Come, read to me some poem, 
Some simple and heartfelt lay, 


That shall soothe this restless feel- 
ing, 

And _ banish 
day. 


the thoughts of 


Not from the grand old masters, 
Not from the bards sublime, 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 


For, like strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life’s endless toil and endeavor ; 
And to-night I long for rest. 


Read from some humbler poet, 
Whose songs gushed from his 
heart, 
As showers from the clouds of 
summer, 
Or tears from the eyelids start ; 


Who, through long days of labor, 
And nights devoid of ease, 


82 





Still heard in his soul the music 
Of wonderful melodies. 


Such songs have power to quiet 
The restless pulse of care, 

And come like the benediction 
That follows after prayer. 


Then read from the treasured vol- 
ume 
The poem of thy choice, 
And lend to the rhyme of the 
poet 
The beauty of thy voice. 


And the night shall be filled with 


music, 
And the cares, that infest the 
day, 
Shall fold their tents, like the 
Arabs, 


And as silently steal away. 


AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY 
THE day is ending, 

The night is descending; 

The marsh is frozen, 

The river dead. 


Through clouds like ashes 
The red sun flashes 

On village windows 

That glimmer red. 


The snow recommences ; 
The buried fences 

Mark no longer 

The road o’er the plain; 


While through the meadows, 
Like fearful shadows, 
Slowly passes 

A funeral train. 


The bell is pealing, 
And every feeling 
Within me responds 
To the dismal knell; 


THE BELFRY OF BRUGES 


Shadows are trailing, 
My heart is bewailing 
And tolling within 
Like a funeral bell. 


TO AN OLD DANISH SONG 
BOOK 


WELCOME, my old friend, 
Welcome to a foreign fireside, 
While the sullen gales of autumn 
Shake the windows. 


The ungrateful world 

Has, it seems, dealt harshly with 
thee, 

Since, beneath the skies of Den- 
mark, 

First I met thee. 


There are marks of age, 
There are thumb-marks on thy 


margin, 10 
Made by hands that clasped thee 
rudely, 


At the alehouse. 


Soiled and dull thou art; 

Yellow are thy time-worn pages, 
As the russet, rain-molested 
Leaves of autumn. 


Thou art stained with wine 
Scattered from hilarious goblets, 
As the leaves with the libations 
Of Olympus. 20 


Yet dost thou recall 

Days departed, half-forgotten, 
When in dreamy youth I wandered 
By the Baltic, — 


When I paused to hear 

The old ballad of King Christian 
Shouted from suburban taverns 
In the twilight. 


Thou recallest bards, 
Who, in solitary chambers, 39 


WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID 





And with hearts by passion wasted, 
Wrote thy pages. 


Thou recallest homes 

Where thy songs of love and friend- 
ship 

Made the gloomy Northern win- 
ter 

Bright as summer. 


Once some ancient Seald, 

Tn his bleak, ancestral Iceland, 

Chanted staves of these old bal- 
lads 

To the Vikings. 40 


Once in Elsinore, 

At the court of old King Ham- 
let, 

Yorick and his boon companions 

Sang these ditties. 


Once Prince Frederick’s Guard 

Sang them in their smoky bar- 
racks ; — 

Suddenly the English cannon 

Joined the chorus! 


Peasants in the field, 

Sailors on the roaring ocean, 50 

Students, tradesmen, pale mechan- 
ics, 

All have sung them. 


Thou hast been their friend; 

They, alas! have left thee friend- 
less! 

Yet at least by one warm fireside 

Art thou welcome. 


And, as swallows build 
In these wide, old-fashioned chim- 


neys, 
So thy twittering song shall nestle 
In my bosom, — 60 


Quiet, close, and warm, 
Sheltered from all molestation, 
And recalling by their voices 
Youth and travel. 


83 





WALTER VON DER VOGEL- 
WEID 


VOGELWEID the Minnesinger, 
When he left this world of ours, 
Laid his body in the eloister, 
Under Wiirtzburg’s minster tow- 
ers. 


And he gave the monks his trea- 
sures, 
Gave them all with this behest: 
They should feed the birds at noon. 
tide : 
Daily on his place of rest; 


Saying, ‘From these wandering 
ininstrels 
I have learned the art of song; 
Let me now repay the lessons 
They have taught so well and 
long.’ 


Thus the bard of love departed ; 
And, fulfilling his desire, 

On his tomb the birds were feasted 
By the children of the choir. 


Day by day, o’er tower and turret, 
In foul weather and in fair, 

Day by day, in vaster numbers, 
Flocked the poets of the air. 


On the tree whose heavy branches 
Overshadowed all the place, 
On the pavement, on the tomb- 
stone, 
On the poet’s sculptured face, 


On the cross-bars of each window, 
On the lintel of each door, 
They renewed the War of Wart- 
burg, 
Which the bard had fought be- 
fore. 


There they sang their merry carols, 
Sang their lauds on every side; 
And the name their voices uttered 

Was the name of Vogelweid. 


84 


Till at length the portly abbot 
Murmured, ‘ Why this waste of 
food? ; 
Be it changed to loaves hencefor- 
ward 
For our fasting brotherhood.’ 


Then in vain o’er tower and tur- 
ret. 
Krom the walls and woodland 
nests, 
When the minster bells rang noon- 
tide, 
Gathered the unwelcome guests. 


Then in vain, with cries discord- 
ant, 
Clamorous round the Gothic 
spire, 
Screamed the feathered 
singers 
For the children of the choir. 


Minne- 


Time has long effaced the inscrip- 
tions 
On the cloister’s funeral stones, 
And tradition only tells us 
Where repose the poet’s bones. 


But around the vast cathedral, 
By sweet echoes multiplied, 
Still the birds repeat the legend, 
And the name of Vogelweid. 


DRINKING SONG 


INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE 
PITCHER 


CoM#, old friend! sit down and 
listen! 
From the pitcher, placed be- 
tween us, 
How the waters laugh and glisten 
In the head of old Silenus! 


Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, 
Led by his inebriate Satyrs; 
On his breast his head is sunken, 

Vacantly he leers and chatters. 


THE BELFRY OF BRUGES 


Fauns with youthful Bacchus folk 
low; 
Ivy crowns that brow supernal 
As the forehead of Apollo, 
And possessing youth eternal. 


Round about him, fair Bacchantes, 


Bearing cymbals, flutes, and 
thyrses, 

Wild from Naxian groves, or 
Zante’s 


Vineyards, sing delirious verses. 


Thus he won, through all the na- 
tions, 
Bloodless 
farmer 
Bore, as trophies and oblations, 
Vines for banners, ploughs for 
armor. 


victories, and the 


Judged by no o’erzealous rigor, 
Much this mystic throng ex- 
presses: 
Bacchus was the type of vigor, 
And Silenus of excesses. 


These are ancient ethnic revels, 
Of a faith long since forsaken ; 
Now the Satyrs, changed to devils, 

Frighten mortals wine-o’ertaken. 


Now to rivulets from the moun- 
tains 
Point the rods of fortune-tellers ; 
Youth perpetual dwells in foun- 
tains, — 
Not in flasks, and casks, and 
cellars. 


Claudius, though he sang of flagons 
And huge tankards filled with 
Rhenish, 
From that fiery blood of dragons 
Never would his own replen: 
ish, 


Even Redi, though he chaunted 
Bacchus in the Tusean valleys, 

Never drank the wine he vaunted 
In his dithyrambic sallies. 


LOE OLD CLOCK ION THE STAIRS 


85 





Then with water fill the pitcher 
Wreathed about with classic 
fables ; 
Ne’er Falernian threw a richer 
Light upon Lucullus’ tables. 


Come, old friend, sit down and 
listen! 
As it passes thus between us, 
How its wavelets laugh and glis- 
ten 
In the head of old Silenus ! 


THE OLD CLOCK ON THE 
STAIRS 


SOMEWHAT back from the village 
street 

Stands the old-fashioned country- 
seat. 

Across its antique portico 

Tall poplar-trees their shadows 
throw; 

And from its station in the hall 
An ancient timepiece says to all, — 
* Forever — never! 

Never — forever !’ 


Half-way up the stairs it stands, 
And points and beckons with its 

hands 10 
From its case of massive oak, 
Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! 
With sorrowful voice to all who 

pass, — 

‘ Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !’ 


By day its voice is low and light; 
But in the silent dead of night, 
Distinct as a passing footstep’s 
fall, 
It echoes along the vaeant hall, 20 
Along the ceiling, along the floor, 
And seems to Say, at each chamber- 
door, — 
* Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !’ 


Through days of sorrow and of 
inirth, 

Through days of death and days of 
birth, 

Through every swift vicissitude 

Of changeful time, unchanged it 
has stood, 

And as if, like God, it all things 


Saw, F 30 
It calmly repeats those words of 
awe, — 


* Forever — never! 
Never — forever!’ 


In that mansion used to be 

Free-hearted Hospitality ; 

His great fires up the chimney 
roared ; 

The stranger feasted at his board; 

But, like the skeleton at the feast, 


That warning timepiece never 
ceased, — 
‘Forever — never ! 40 


Never — forever !? 


There groups of merry children 
played, 
There youths and maidens dream- 
ing strayed ; 
O precious hours! O golden prime, 
And affluence of love and time! 
Even as a miser counts his gold, 
Those hours the ancient timepiece 
told, — 
‘ Forever — never! 
Never — forever !? 


From that chamber, clothed in 
white, 50 
The bride came forth on her wed- 
ding night; 
There, in that silent room below, 
The dead lay in his shroud of 
snow; 
And in the hush that followed the 
prayer, 
Was heard the old clock on the 
stair, — 
* Forever — never ! 
Never — forever!’ 


86 


THE BELFRY OF BRUGES 





All are scattered now and fled, 
Some are married, some are dead; 
And when I ask, with throbs of 


pain, 60 
‘Ah! when shall they all meet 
again?’ 


As in the days long since gone by, 
The ancient timepiece makes re- 
ply, aoe 
‘ Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !’ 


Never here, forever there, 
Where all parting, pain, and care, 
And death, and time shall disap- 
pear, — 
Forever there, but never here! 
The horologe of Eternity 70 
Sayeth this incessantly, — 
‘Forever — never ! 
Never — forever !’ 


THE ARROW AND THE SONG 


I SHOT an arrow into the air, 

It fell to earth, I knew not where; 
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 


I breathed a song into the air, 

It fell to earth, I knew not where; 

For who has sight so keen and 
strong, 

That it can follow the flight of song? 


Long, long afterward, in an oak 

I found the arrow, still unbroke; 

And the song, from beginning to 
end, 

1 found again in the heart of a 
friend. 


SONNETS 
MEZZO CAMMIN 


HALY of my life is gone, and I 
have let 
The years slip from me and have 
not fulfilled 


The aspiration of my youth, to 
build 

Some tower of song with lofty 
parapet. 

Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor 

the fret 

Of restless passions that would 
not be stilled, 

But sorrow, and a care that 
almost killed, 

Kept me from what I may ac- 
complish yet; 


Though, half-way up the hill, I see 
the Past 
Lying beneath me with 
sounds and sights, — 
A city in the twilight dim and 
vast, 
With smoking roofs, soft bells, 
and gleaming lights, — 
And hear above me on the au- 
tumnal blast 
The cataract of Death far thun- 
dering from the heights. 


its 


THE EVENING STAR 


Lo! in the painted oriel of the 


West, 

Whose panes the sunken sun 
incarnadines, 

Like a fair lady at her casement, 
shines 

The evening star, the star of love 
and rest! 

And then anon she doth herself 

divest 

Of all her radiant garments, and 
reclines 


Behind the sombre screen of 
yonder pines, 

With slumber and soft dreams 
of love oppressed. 

O my beloved, my sweet Hes. 

perus! 

My morning and my evening star 
of love! 

My best and gentlest lady! even 
thus, 


: CURFEW 


87 





As that fair planet in the sky 
above, 
Dost thou retire unto thy rest at 
night, 
And from thy darkened window 
fades the light. 


AUTUMN 


THovu comest, Autumn, heralded 
by the rain, 
With banners, by great gales in- 
cessant fanned, 
Brighter than brightest silks of 
Samarcand, 
And stately oxen harnessed to 
thy wain! 
Thoustandest, like imperial Charle- 
magne, 
Upon thy bridge of gold; thy 
royal hand 
Outstretched with benedictions 
o’er the land, 
Blessing the farms through all 
thy vast domain! 
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, 
suspended 
So long beneath the heaven’s 
o’erhanging eaves; 
Thy steps are by the farmer’s 
prayers attended; 
Like flames upon an altar shine 
the sheaves; 
And, following thee, in thy ova- 
tion splendid, 
Thine almoner, the wind, scat- 
ters the golden leaves! 


DANTE 


TUSCAN, that wanderest through 
the realms of gloom, 
With thoughtful pace, and sad, 
majestic eyes, 
Stern thoughts and awful from 
thy soul arise, 
Like Farinata from his fiery 
tomb. 
Thy sacred song is like the trump 
of doom ; 


Yet in thy heart what human 
sympathies, 
What soft compassion glows, as 
in the skies 
The tender stars their clouded 
lamps relume! 
Methinks I see thee stand with 
pallid cheeks 
By Fra Hilario in his diocese, 
As up the convent-wallis, in 
golden streaks, 
The ascending sunbeams mark the 
day’s decrease ; 
And, as he asks what there the 
stranger seeks, 
Thy voice along the cloister 
whispers * Peace !? 


CURFEW 


I 
SOLEMNLY, mournfully, 
Dealing its dole, 
The Curfew Bell 
Is beginning to toll. 


Cover the embers, 
And put out the light ; 

Toil comes with the morning, 
And rest with the night. 


Dark grow the windows, 
And quenched is the fire ; 

Sound fades into silence, — 
All footsteps retire. 


No voice in the chambers, 
No sound in the hall! 
Sleep and oblivion 
Reign over all! 


II 


The book is completed, 
And closed, like the day; 

And the hand that has written it 
Lays it away. 


Dim grow its fancies ; 
Forgotten they lie ; 
Like coals in the ashes, 

They darken and die. 


8&3 EVANGELINE 


eee tt 


Song sinks into silence, Darker and darker 
The story is told, The black shadows fall; 
The windows are darkened, Sleep and oblivion 
The hearth-stone is cold. Reign over all. 
EVANGELINE 


A ‘TALE (OF) ACADIE 


THis is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlock 
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, 
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, 

Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. 

Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean 
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. 


This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it 

Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the 
huntsman ? 

Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers, — -: 
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, 19 
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven ? 
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed ! 
Seattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October 
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o’er the ocean, 
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre. 


Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient, 
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman’s devotion, 
List to the mournful tradition, still sung by the pines of the forest; 
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy. 


PART THE FIRST 


I 


In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, 2¢ 
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pré 
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the eastward, 
jiving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without number. 
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor incessant, 
Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the flood-gates 
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o’er the meadows. 
West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and cornfields 
Spreading afar and unfenced o’er the plain; and away to the north 
ward 
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains 
Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic 34 


EVANGELINE 89 





Looked on the happy valley, but ne’er from their station descended. 

There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village. 

Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of hemlock, 

Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries. 

Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows ; and gables projecting 

Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway. 

There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the sunset 

Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys, 

Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles 

Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden 40 

Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors 

Mingled their sounds with the whir of the wheels and the songs of the 
maidens. 

Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children 

Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them. 

Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens, 

Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome. 

Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun 
sank 

Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the belfry 

Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village 

Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, 50 

Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment. 

Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers, — 

Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were they free from 

Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of republics. 

Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows; 

But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of the owners; 

There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance. 


Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas, 

Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pré, 

Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household, 60 

Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village. 

Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters ; 

Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes ; 

White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak- 
leaves. 

Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers, 

Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the way. 
side, 

Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her 
tresses! 

Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the meadows. 

When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide 

Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden. 70 

Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret 

Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop 

Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, 

Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her 
missal, 


90 EVANGELINE 


——ae 








Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue. and the ear-rings, 
Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom, 
Handed down from mother to child, through long generations. 

But a celestial brightness — a more ethereal beauty — 

Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession, 
Homeward serenely she walked with God’s benediction upon her. 8¢ 
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. 


Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the farmer 

Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea; and a shady 

Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around it. 

Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; and a footpath 

Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the meadow. 

Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse, 

Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside, 

Built o’er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary. 

Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well with its moss: 
grown go 

Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the horses. 

Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns and the 
farm-yard. 

There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs and the 
harrows; 

There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in his feathered seraglio, 

Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the selfsame 

Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter. 

Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In each one 

Far o’er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and a staircase, 

Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft. 

There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent inmates 100 

Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant breezes 

Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation. 


Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of Grand-Pré 
Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his household. 
Many a youth, as he knelt in church and opened his missal, 

Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deepest devotion ; 

Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem of her garment? 
Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness befriended, 

And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her footsteps, 
Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of iron; rze 
Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village, 

Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered 
Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music. 

But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome ; 

Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the blacksmith, 

Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored of all men; 

For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations, 

Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people. 

Basil was Benedict’s friend. Their children from earliest childhood 
Grew up together as brother and sister; and Father Felician, 12@ 


EVANGELINE | or 








Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them their letters 

Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and the plain- 
song. 

But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson completed, 

Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the blacksmith. 

There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold him 

Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything, 

Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the tire of the cart-wheel 

Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders. 

Oft on autumnal! eves, when without in the gathering darkness 

Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny and 
crevice, 130 

Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring bellows, 

And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes, 

Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel. 

Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the eagle, 

Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o’er the meadow. 

Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests on the rafters, 

Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the swallow 

Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings ; 

Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the swallow! 

Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer were children. 140 

He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the morning, 

Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened thought into action. 

She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a woman. 

‘Sunshine of Saint Eulalie’ was she called; for that was the sunshine 

Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with apples; 

She, too, would bring to her husband’s house delight and abundance, 

Filling it with love and the ruddy faces of children. 


II 


Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer, 
And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters. 
Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound, 150 
Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands. 
Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of September 
Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel, 
All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. 
Pees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey 
Till the hives overflowed ; and the Indian hunters asserted 

Jold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes, 
\‘uch was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season, 
Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints! 

filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the land- 

scape 166 

Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood. 

Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean 
Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended. 
Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards, 
Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons, 


92 EVANGELINE 





All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun 

Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him; 

While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow, 

Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest 

Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and 
jewels. 17a 


Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness. 

Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending 

Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the hoine. 
stead. 

Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other, 

And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening. 

Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline’s beautiful heifer, 

Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her 
collar, 

Quietly ‘paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection. 

Then came the shepherd back with his Defeats flocks from the sea- 


side, 
Where was their favorite pasture. Behind enh followed the watch- 
dog, 180 


Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct, 

Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly 

Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers ; 

Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector, 

When from the forest at night, through the starry silence the wolve 
- howled. 

Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes, 

Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor. 

Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fet- 

locks, 

While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles, 

Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson, 190 

Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms. 

Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders 

Unto the milkmaid’s hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence 

Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended. 

Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard, 

Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness; 

Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors, 

Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent. 


In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the farmer 

Sat in his elbow-chair and watched how the flames and the smoke. 
wreaths 20a 

Struggled together like foes in a burning city. Behind him, 
Nodding and mocking along the wall, with gestures fantastic, 
Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into darkness. 
Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair 
Laughed in the flickering light; and the pewter plates on the dresser 
Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine. 


EVANGELINE 93 








Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas, 

Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him 

Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards, 
Close at her father’s side was the gentle Evangeline seated, 210 
Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner behind her, 

Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle, 

While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a bagpipe, 
Followed the old man’s song and united the fragments together. 

As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals ceases, 
Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the altar, 

So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the clock clicked. 


Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, suddenly lifted, 
Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back on its hinges. 
Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil the blacksmith, 


And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was with him. 221 
‘Welcome!’ the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused on the 
threshold, , 


‘Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy place on the settle 

Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty without thee; 

Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of tobacco; 

Never so much thyself art thou as when through the curling 

Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and jovial face gleams 

Round and red as the harvest moon through the mist of the marshes." 

Then, with a smile of content. thus answered Basil the blacksmith, 

Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fireside : — 236 

‘Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad! 

Ever in cheerfulest mood art thou, when others are filled with 

Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them. 

Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.’ 

Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought him, 

And witha coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly continued : — 

‘Four days now are passed since the English ships at their anchors 

Ride in the Gaspereau’s mouth, with their cannon pointed against us. 

What their design may be is unknown; but all are commanded 

On the morrow to meet in the church, where his Majesty’s mandate 

Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas! in the mean time 241 

Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people.’ 

Then made answer the farmer: *‘ Perhaps some friendlier purpose 

Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in England 

By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been blighted, 

And from our bursting barns they would feed their cattle ana chil- 
dren.’ 

*Not so thinketh the folk in the village,’ said, warmly, the blacksmith 

Shaking his head, as in doubt; then, heaving a sigh, he continued: — 

‘Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Séjour, nor Port Royal. 

Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its outskirts, 250 

Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to-morrow. 

Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons of all kinds; 

Nothing is left but the blacksmith’s sledge and the scythe of the 
mowet.’ 


94 EVANGELINE 


rr eT 


Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer : — 

‘Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks and our cornfields, 

Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the ocean, 

Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy’s cannon. 

Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow of sorrow 

Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night of the contract. 

Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of the village 26a 

Strongly have bailt them and well; and, breaking the glebe round 
about them, 

Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelvemonth. 

René Leblane will be here anon, with his papers and inkhorn. 

Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our children?’ 

As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in her lover’s, 

Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had spoken, 

And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered. 


III 


Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean, 
Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public ; 


Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung 270 
Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn 
bows 


Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal. 

Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred 

Children’s children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick. 

Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive, 

Suffering muchin an old French fort as the friend of the English, 

Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion, 

Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike. 

He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children ; 

For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest, 28a 

And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses, 

And of the white Létiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened 

Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children; 

And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable, 

And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell, 

And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes, 

With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village. 

Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith, 

Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand, 

‘Father Leblane,’ he exclaimed, ‘thou hast heard the talk in the vil- 
lage, 290 

And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and their 
errand.’ 

Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public, — 

‘Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser; 

And what their errand.may be I know not better than others, 

Yetam [ not of those who imagine some evil intention 

Brings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us ?? 

‘God’s name !’ shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith: 

Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the where 
forse? 


EVANGELINE 95 





Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest !? 

But without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public, — 300 

*Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice 

Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me, 

When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal.’ 

This was the old man’s favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it 

When his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them. 

‘Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember, 

Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice 

Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand, 

And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided 

Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people. 310 

Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance, 

Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them. 

But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted ; 

Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the 
mighty 

Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman’s palace 

That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicion 

Fell on an orphan girl who lived as a maid in the household. 

She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold, 

Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice. 

As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended, 320 

Lo! o’er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder 

Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand 

Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance, 

And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie, 

Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven.’ 

Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith 

Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language ; 

All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors 

Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter. 


Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table, 330 
Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed 
Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of Granda 

Pré; 
While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn, 
Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties, 
Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle. 
Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed, 
And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin. 
Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table 
Three times the old man’s fee in solid pieces of silver; 
And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom, 340 
Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare. 
Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed, 
While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside, 
Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner. 
Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men 
Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manoeuvre, 


06 EVANGELINE 





oS eee 


Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the king- 
row. 

Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window’s embrasure, 

Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise 

Over the pallid sea, and the silvery mists of the meadows. 350 

Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, 

Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels. 


Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell from the belfry 

Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway 

Rose the guests and departed ; and silence reigned in the household. 

Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the door-step 

Lingered long in Evangeline’s heart, and filled it with gladness. 

Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth- 
stone, 

And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer. 

Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed. 360 

Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness, 

Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden. 

Silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of her chamber. 

Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes- 
press 

Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded 

Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven. 

This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in mar- 
riage, 

Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife. 

Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moonlight 

Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart of 
the maiden 370 

Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean. 

Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with 

Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber ! 

Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard, 

Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her 
shadow. 

Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness 

Passed o’er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight 

Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment. 

And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass 

Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps, 380 

As out of Abraham’s tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar! 


IV 


Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of Grand-Pré. 
Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas, 

Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor. 
Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor 

Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning. 
Now from the country around, from the farms and neighboring hamlets, 
Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants. 


EVANGELINE 97 





Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the young folk 

Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numerous meadows, 390 

Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels in the greensward, 

Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on the highway. 

Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were silenced. 

Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at the house- 
doors ‘ 

Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. 

Every house was ab inn, where all were welcomed and feasted ; 

For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together, 

All things were held in common, and what one had was another’s, 

Yet under Benedict’s roof hospitality seemed more abundant: 

For Evangeline stood among the guests of her father; 400 

Bright was her face with smiles, and words of welcome and gladness 

Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as she gave it. 





Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard, 
Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal. 
There in the shade of the porch were the priest and the notary seated; 
There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith. 
Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and the beehives, 
Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest cf hearts and of waist- 


coats. 
Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played on his snow-white 
Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face of the fiddler 410 


Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the embers. 
Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle, 

Tous les Bowrgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de Dunquerque, 
And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the musie. 

Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying dances 

Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows; 

Old folk and young together, and children mingled among them. 
Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict’s daughter ! 
Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the blacksmith! 


So passed the morning away. And lo! with asummons sonorous 420 
Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a drum beat. 
Thronged erelong was the church with men. Without, in the church- 

yard, 

Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and hung on the head- 
; stones 

Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the forest. 

Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly among them 
Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant clangor 

Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and casement, — 
Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous portal 

Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the soldiers. 

Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the altar, 
Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission. 431 
“You are convened this day,’ he said, ‘ by his Majesty’s orders. 
Clement and kind has he been; but how you have answered his kindness, 


98 EVANGELINE 





Let your own hearts reply! To my natural make and my temper 

Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must be grievous. 

Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch; 

Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all kinds 

Forfeited be to the crown; and that you yourselves from this province 

Be transported to other lands. God grant youmay dwell there 

Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable people! | 440 

Prisoners now I declare you; for such is his Majesty’s pleasure!’ 

As, when the air is serene in sultry solstice of summer, 

Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the hailstones 

Beats down the farmer’s corn in the field and shatters his windows, 

Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the house- 
roofs, 

Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures; 

Sv on the hearts of the people descended the words of the speaker, 

Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then rose 

Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger, 

And, by one impulse moved, they madiy rushed to the door-way. 450 

Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations 

Rang through the house of prayer; and high o’er the heads of the others 

Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the blacksmith, 

As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows. 

Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; and wildly he 
shouted, — 

‘Down with the tyrants of England! we never have sworn them 
allegiance! 

Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and our har- 
vests!’ 

More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a soldier 

Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the pavement. 


Tn the midst of the strife and tumult of angry contention, 469 
Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician 
Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the altar. 
Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into silence ~ 
All that clamorous throng; and thus he spake to his people; 
Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents measured and mournful 
Spake he, as, after the tocsin’s alarum, distinctly the clock strikes. 
‘What is this that ye do, my children? what madness has seized you? 
Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and taught you, 
Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another ! 
Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers and privations? 470 
Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and forgiveness? 
This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you profane it 
Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred? 
Lo! where the crucified Christ from his cross is gazing upon you! 
See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy compassion! 
Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, “ O Father, forgive them!” 
Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked assail us, 
Let us repeat it now, and say, “ O Father, forgive them!”? 
Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his people 479 


EVANGELINE 99 





Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate outbreak, 
While they repeated his prayer, and said, ‘O Father, forgive them !’ 


Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from the altar. 
Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people re- 
sponded, 
Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the Ave Maria 
Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with devotion trans- 
lated, 
Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven. 


Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and on all sides 
Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and children. 
Long at her father’s door Evangeline stood, with her right hand 
Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, descending, 490 
Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, and roofed each 
Peasant’s cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its windows. 
Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth on the table ; 

There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant with wild- 
flowers ; 

There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh brought from the 
dairy, 

And, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair of the farmer. 

Thus did Evangeline wait at her father’s door, as the sunset 

Threw the long shadows of trees o’er the broad ambrosial meadows. 

Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen, 

And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended,— — 500 

Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and patience ! 

Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the village, 

Cheering with looks and words the mournful hearts of the women, 

As o’er the darkening fields with lingering steps they departed, 

Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of their children. 

Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmering vapors 

Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descending from Sinai. 

Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded. 


Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline lingered. 

All was silent within; and in vain at the door and the windows 510 

Stood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome by emotion, 

‘Gabriel!’ cried she aloud with tremulous voice; but no answer 

Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier grave of the living. 

Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house of her father. 

Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was the supper un- 
tasted, 

Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms of 
terror. 

Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her chamber. 

In the dead of the night she heard the disconsolate rain fall 

Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by the window. 

Keenly the lightning flashed ; and the voice of the echoing thunder 526 

Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created! 


100 EVANGELINE 


a 





—— 


Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the justice of Heaven; 
Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully slumbered till 
morning. . 


Vv 


Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day 

Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house. 

Soon o’er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession, 

Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women, 

Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore, 

Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings, 

Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the wood. 
land. 530 

Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen, 

While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings. 


Thus to the Gaspereau’s mouth they hurried ; and there on the sea. 
beach 
Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants. 
All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply; 
All day long the wains came laboring down from the village. 
Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting, 
Echoed far o’er the fields came the roll of drums from the churehyard. 
Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church. 


doors 
Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession 
Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers. 541 


Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country, 

Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn, 

So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended 

Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daugh- 
Gers: 

Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices, 

Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions : — 

‘Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain! 

Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!’ 

Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the 
wayside 55a 

Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them 

Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. 


Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence, 
Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction, — 
Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession approached her, 
And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion. 
Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him, 
Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his shoulder, and whis 
pered, — 
‘Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one another 
Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may happen!’ 56¢ 
Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly paused, for her father 


EVANGELINE 10% 


Saw she slowly advancing. Alas! how changed was his aspect! 

Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from his eye, and hig 
footstep 

Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his bosom. 

But with a smile and a sigh she clasped his neck and embraced him, 

Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed not. 

Thus to the Gaspereau’s mouth moved on that mournful procession. 


There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking. 

Busily plied the freighted boats ; and in the confusion 

Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their 
children 570 

Leit on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. 

So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried, 

While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father. 

Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight 

Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean 

Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach 

Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed. 

Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons, 

Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle, 

All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them, 580 

Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers. 

Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean, 

Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving 

Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors. 

Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures; 

Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders ; 

Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm- 
yard, — 

Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milk-maid. 

Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded, 

Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the win- 
dows. 590 


“But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled, 
Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest. 
Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered, 
Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the erying of children. 
Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish, 
Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering, 
Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita’s desolate sea-shore. 

Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father, 

And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old man, 599 

Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion, 

E’en as the face of a clock from which the hands have been taken. 

Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him, 

Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake 
not, 

But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light. 
‘Benedicite !’ murmured the priest, in tones of compassion. 


102 EVANGELINE ; 


ee ee 


More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents 
Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a thresbold, 
Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow. 
Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden, 
Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that above them 61a 
Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals, 
Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in silence. 


Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red 
Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o’er the horizon 
Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon the mountain and meadow, 
Seizing the rocks and the rivers and piling huge shadows together. 
Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village, 
Gleamed on the sky and sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead. 
Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were 
Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of 


a martyr. 620 
Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, up- 
lifting, 


Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops 
Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled. 


These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on ship- 
board. 

Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish, 
‘ We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-Pré!? 
Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards, 
Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the lowing of cattle 
Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted. 
Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments 


Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska, 631 
When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirl- 
wind, 


Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river. 

Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses 

Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o’er the 
meadows. 


Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the priest and the maiden 
Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before them ; 
And as they turned at length to speak to their silent companion, 

Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the sea-Shore 
Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed. 64a 
Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden 

Knelt at her father’s side, and wailed aloud in her terror. 

Then in a Swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom. 
Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber ; 

And when she awoke from the trance, she beheld a multitude near her. 
Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gazing upon her, 
Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion. 

Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape, 





i 
| 





EVANGELINE 103 








Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around her, 
And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses. 650 
Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people, — 

‘Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season 

Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile, 
Then shail his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard.’ 

Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the sea-side, 
Having the glare of the burning village for funeral torches, 

But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of Grand-Pré. 

And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of sorrow, 

Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation, 
Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. 660 
*T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean, 

With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward. 
Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking ; 

And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor, 
Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins. 


PART THE SECOND 
; F 


MANY a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pré, 

When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed, 

Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile, 

Exile without an end, and without an example in story, 

Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed; 670 

Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from the 
northeast 

Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of Newfound- 
land. 

Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city, 

From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas, — 

From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of 
Waters 

Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean, 

Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth. 

Friends they sought and homes; and many, despairing, heart-broken, 

Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside. 

Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards. 


Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered, 68:1 
_ Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things. 


Fair was she and young: but, alas! before her extended, 


| Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway 


Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before 
her, 

Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned, 

As the emigrant’s way o’er the Western desert is marked by 


_ Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine. 


Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished; 
As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine, 69a 


IOA EVANGELINE 


ee eee 


Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended 

Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen. 

Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her, 

Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit, 

She would commence again her endless search and endeavor ; 

Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tomb 
stones, 

Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom 

He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him. 

Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper, 


Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward. 70G 
Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known 
him, 


But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten. 

*Gabriel Lajeunesse!’ they said; ‘Oh yes! we have seen him. 

He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the prairies; 

Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters and trappers. _ 

‘Gabriel Lajeunesse!’ said others ; ‘Oh yes! we have seen him. 

He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana.’ 

Then would they say, ‘ Dear child! why dream and wait for him longer ? 

Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? others 

Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal? 71a 

Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary’s son,.who has loved thee 

Many a tedious year; come, give him thy hand and be happy! 

Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine’s tresses.’ 

Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, * I cannot! 

Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere, 

For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the path. 
way, 

Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness.’ 

Thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confessor, 

Said, with a smile, ‘O daughter! thy God thus speaketh within thee! 

Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted ; 720 

Tf it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning 

Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment; 

That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. 

Patience; accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy work of affection! 

Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike. 

Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike, 

Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of hea- 
vel? 

Cheered by the good man’s words, Evangeline labored and waited. 

Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean, 

But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, ‘ Despair 
not!’ 736 

Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort, 

Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence. 

Let me essay, O Muse! to follow the wanderer’s footsteps ; — 

Not through each devious path, each changeful year of existence, 

But as a traveller follows a streamlet’s course through the valley : 

Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water 


EVANGELINE 105 





Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only ; 

Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms that conceal it, 
Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur ; 

Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reaches an outlet. 744 


II 


It was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River, 

Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash, 

Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi, 

Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen. 

It was a band of exiles: a raft, as it were, from the shipwrecked 

Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together, 

Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common misfortune ; 

Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hearsay, 

Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred farmers 

On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas. 758 

With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father Felician. 

Onward o’er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with forests, 

Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river ; 

Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its borders. 

Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where plumelike 

Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the current, 

Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars 

Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their margin, 

Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pelicans waded. . 

Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river, 760 

Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens, 

Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dove-cots. 

They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual summer, 

Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and citron, 

Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward. 

They, too, swerved from their course; and entering the Bayou of 
Plaquemine, 

Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters, 

Which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction. 

Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypress 

Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air 770 

Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals. 

Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by the herons 

Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset, 

Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniae laughter. 

Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the water, 

Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the arches, 

Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through chinks in a ruin. 

Dreamlike, and indistinet, and strange were all things around them; 

And o’er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sadness, — 

Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be compassed. 78a 

As, at the tramp of a horse’s hoof on the turf of the prairies, 

Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa, 

So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil, 

Shrinks and closes the heart, 2re the stroke of doom has attained it. 


106 EVANGELINE 


ee RE RT 


But Evangeline’s heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly 
Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight. 
It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a phantom. 

. Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her, 
And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer. 


Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the oarsmen, 
And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradventure 791 
Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a blast on his bugle. 
Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast rang, 

' Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to the forest. 

Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred to the music. 

Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance, 

Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant branches ; 

But not a voice replied; no answer came from the darkness ; 

And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence, 

Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed through the mid- 
night, 800 

Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat-songs, 

Such as they sang of eld on their own Acadian rivers, 

While through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of the 
desert, 

Far off, — indistinct, — as of wave or wind in the forest, 

Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim alligator. 


vA 
Thus ere another noon they emerged from the shades; and before 
them 

Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya. 
Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undulations 
Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus 
Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boatmen. 810 
Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magnolia blossoms, 
And with the heat of noon; and numberless sylvan islands, 
Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming hedges of roses, 
Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to slumber. 
Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were suspended. 
Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew by the margin, 
Safely their boat was moored; and scattered about on the greensward, 
Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered. 
Over them vast and high extended the cope of a cedar. 
Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and the grapevine 
Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jacob, 82% 
On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending, 
Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to blossom. 
Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered beneath it. 
Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an opening heaven 
Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial. 


Nearer, and ever nearer, among the numberless islands, 
Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o’er the water, 
Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trappers. 


EVANGELINE 107 





Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and beaver. 830 
At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and careworn. 
Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sadness 
Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written. 

Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless, 

Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow. 

Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the island, 

But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of palmettos, 

So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the willows; 
All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, were the sleepers. 
Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumbering maiden. 840 
Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the prairie. 
After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died in the distance, 
As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the maiden 

Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, *O Father Felician ! 

Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel wanders. 

Ys it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition ? 

Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my spirit ?? 

Then, with a blush, she added, * Alas for my credulous fancy! 

Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaning.’ 849 
But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as he answered, — 
‘Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they to me without meaning, 
Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surface 

Ts as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is hidden. 
Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusions. 
Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the southward, 

On the banks of the Téche, are the towns of St. Maur and St. Martin. 
There the long-wandering bride shall be given again to her bridegroom, 
There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his sheepfold. 
Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-trees ; 

Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of heavens 860 
Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of the forest. 

They who dwell there have named it the Eden of Louisiana !? 


With these words of cheer they arose and continued their journey. 
Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon 
Like a magician extended his golden wand o’er the landscape ; 
Twinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest 
Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together. 
Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver, 
Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless water. 
Filled was Evangeline’s heart with inexpressible sweetness. 870 
Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of feeling 
Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters around her. 
Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wildest of singers, 
Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o’er the water, 
Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music, 
That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen, 
Plaintive at first were the tones and sad: then soaring to madness 
Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes. 
Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation ; 


108 . EVANGELINE 


Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision, 880 

As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops 

Shakes down the rattling rain ina crystal shower on the branches. 

With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed with emotion, 

Slowly they entered the Téche, where it flows through the green Ope. 
lousas, 

And, through the amber air, above the crest of the woodland, 

Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighboring dwelling ; — 

Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing of cattle. 


Til 


Near to the bank of the river, o’ershadowed by oaks, from whose 
branches 

Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted, 

Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at Yule-tide, 890 

Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. A garden 

Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blossoms, 

Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of timbers 

Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted together. 

Large and low was the roof; and on slender columns supported, 

Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious veranda, 

Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended around it. 

At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the garden, 

Stationed the dove-cots were, as love’s perpetual symbol, 

Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals. goo 

Silence reigned o’er the place. The line of shadow and sunshine 

Ran near the tops of the trees ; but the house itself was in shadow, 

And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding 

Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke rose. 

In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a pathway 

Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the limitless prairie, 

Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descending. 

Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy canvas 

Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm in the tropics, 

Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grape-vines. gic 


Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie, 
Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups, 
Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of deerskin. 
Broad and brown was the face that from under the Spanish sombrero 
Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its master. 
Round about him were numberless herds of kine, that were grazing 
Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory freshness 
That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the landscape. 
Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding 
Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded 924 
Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the evening. 
Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the cattle 
Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean. 
Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o’er the prairie, 
And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the distance. 


EVANGELINE 109 





Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate of the 
garden 

Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to meet him. 

Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and forward 

Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of wonder ; 

When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the blacksmith. 930 

Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the garden. 

There in an arbor of roses with endless question and answer 

Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly embraces, 

Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful. 

Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark doubts and misgiv- 
ings 

Stole o’er the maiden’s heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed, 

Broke the silence and said, * If you came by the Atchafalaya, 

How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel’s boat on the bayous?’ 

Over Evangeline’s face at the words of Basil a shade passed. 

Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous accent, 940 

‘Gone? is Gabriel gone?’ and, concealing her face on his shoulder, 

All her o’erburdened heart gave way, and she wept and lamented. 

Then the good Basil said, — and his voice grew blithe as he said it, — 

‘Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he departed. 

Foolish boy! he has left me alone with my herds and my horses. 

Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his spirit 

Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence, 

Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever, 

Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles, 

He at length had become so tedious to men and to maidens, 950 

Tedious even to me, that at length 1 bethought me, and sent him 

Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the Spaniards. 

Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark Mountains, 

Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver. 

Therefore be of good cheer; we will follow the fugitive lover; 

He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are against 
him. 

Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of the morning 

We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison.’ 


Then glad voices were heard, and up from the banks of the river, 
Borne aloft on his comrades’ arms, came Michael the fiddler. g60 
Long under Basil’s roof had he lived like a god on Olympus, 

Having no other care than dispensing music to mortals, 

Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fiddle. 

‘Long live Michael,’ they cried, ‘our brave Acadian minstrel!? 

As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession; and straightway 
Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting the old man 
Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, enraptured, 
Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips, 
Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and daughters. 
Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the ci-devant blacksmith, 
All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal demeanor ; g7t 
Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the climate, 


IIo EVANGELINE 





And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who would take 
them ; 

Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go and do likewise. 

Thus they ascended the steps, and crossing the breezy veranda, 

Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil 

Waited his late return; and they rested and feasted together. 


Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended. 

All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape with silver, 

Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars; but within doors, 980 

Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the glimmering lamp- 
light. 

Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, the herdsman 

Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless profusion. 

Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchitoches tobacco, 

Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they listened :—~ 

‘Welcome once more, my friends, who long have been friendless and 
homeless, 

Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than the old 
one! 

Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers; 

Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the farmer. 

Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel through the 
water. 99% 

All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom; and grass grows 

More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer. 

Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the prairies; 

Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of timber 

With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into houses. 

After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with harvests, 

No King George of England shall drive you away from your homesteads, 

Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your farms and your 
cattle.’ 

Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his nostrils, 

While his huge, brown hand came thundering down on the table, 1000 

So that the guests all started; and Father Felician, astounded, 

Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to his nostrils. 

But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were milder and gayer : — 

‘Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever! 

For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate, 

Cured by wearing a spider hung round one’s neck in a nutshell!’ 

Then there were voices heard at the door, and footsteps approaching 

Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy veranda. 

It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian planters, 

Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the Herdsman. tora 

Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbors: 

Friend clasped friend in his arms; and they who before were as 
strangers, 

Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each other, 

Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country together. 

But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, proceeding 


EVANGELINE Ink 





From the accordant strings of Michael’s melodious fiddle, 

Broke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted, 

All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to the maddening 
Whirl of the giddy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music, 
Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of fluttering garments, 1020 


Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and the herds- 

man 

Sat, conversing together of past and present and future ; 

While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her 

Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music 

Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sadness 

Came o’er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into the garden. 

Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest, 

Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river 

Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the 
moonlight, 

Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit. 1030 

Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden 

Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confes- 
sions 

Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian. 

Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night- 
dews, 

Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight 

Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, 

As, through the garden-gate, and beneath the shade of the oak-trees, 

Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie, 

Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-fiies 

Gleamed and floated away in mingled and infinite numbers. 1040 

Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens, 

Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship, 

Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple, 

As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, * Upharsin,’ 

And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the tfire-flies, 

Wandered alone, and she cried, ‘O Gabriel! Omy beloved! 

Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee? 

Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does net reach me? 

Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie! 1049 

Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands around me! 

Ah! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor, 

Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers! 

When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee ?’ 

Loud and sudden and near the notes of a whippoorwill sounded 

Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the neighboring thickets, 

Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. 

*Patience!’ whispered the oaks from oracular caverns of darkness: 

And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, ‘ To-morrow!’ 


Bright rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the garden, 
Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses 1060 


Ir2 EVANGELINE 





With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal. 

‘Farewell!’ said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy threshold; 

*See that you bring us the Prodigal Son trom his fasting and famine, 

And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom was 
coming.’ 

*Farewell!’ answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil descended 

Down to the river’s brink, where the boatmen already were waiting. 

Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sunshine, and glad 
ness, 

Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding before them, 

Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert. 

Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that succeeded, 1070 

Found they the trace of his course, in lake or forest or river, 

Nor, after many days, had they found him; but vague and uncertain 

Rumors alone were their guides through a wild and desolate country ; 

Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes, 

Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the garrulous land- 
lord, 

That on the day before, with horses and guides and companions, 

Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the prairies. 


IV 


Far in the West there lies a desert land, where the mountains 

Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and luminous summits. 

Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the gorge, like a gate- 
way, 1080 

Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant’s wagon, 

Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and Owyhee. 

Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river Mountains, 

Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Nebraska; 

And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the Spanish sierras, 

Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind of the desert, 

Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to the ocean, 

Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibrations. 

Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful prairies 3 

Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine, 1090 

Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas., 

Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk and the roebuck ; 

Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses; 

Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with travel; 

Over them wander the seattered tribes of Ishmael’s children, 

Staining the desert with blood; and above their terrible war-trails 

Cireles and Sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vulture, 

Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle, 

By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens. 

Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these savage marauds 
ers; L10G 

Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift-running rivers; 

And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk of the desert, 

Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook-side, 

And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven, 

Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them. 


EVANGELINE 113 


OLE es 








Tnto this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Mountains, | 

Gabriel! far had entered, with hunters and trappers behind him, 

Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and Basil 

Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to o’ertake him. 

Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his camp-fire 

Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; but at nightfall, 9 1111 

When they had reached the place they found only embers and ashes. 

And, though ,their hearts were sad at times and their bodies were 
weary, 

Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana 

showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished before 
them. 


Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently entered 

Into their little camp an Indian woman, whose features 

Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as her sorrow. 

She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people, 

From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Camanches, 1120 

Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, had been murdered. 

Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and friendliest 
welcome 

Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted among them 

On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the embers. 

But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his companions, 

Worn with the long day’s march and the chase of the deer and the bison, 

Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the quivering fire- 
light 

Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up in their 
blankets, 

Then at the door of Evangeline’s tent she sat and repeated 

Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian accent, 1130 

All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and reverses. 

Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another 

Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been disappointed. 

Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman’s compassion, 

Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near her, 

She in turn related her love and all its disasters. 

Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had ended 

Still was mute; but at Jength, as if a mysterious horror 

Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of the 
Mowis; 

Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a maiden, 1140 

But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wigwam, 

Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine, 

Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the forest. 

Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird incantation, 

Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a phantom, 

That through the pines o’er her father’s lodge, in the hush of the twi 
light, 

Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the maiden, 

Till she followed his green and waving plume through the forest, 


II4 EVANGELINE 





And nevermore returned, nor was seen again by her people. 

Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened 115@ 
To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around her 
Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the enchantress, 
Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose, 

Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splendor 

Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling the woodland. 
With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches 

Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whispers. 

Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline’s heart, but a secret, 
Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror, 

As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the swallow. 1160 
It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of spirits 

Seemed to float in the air of night; and she felt for a moment 

That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantom. 

With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had vanished. 


Early upon the morrow the march was resumed; and the Shawnee 
Said, as they journeyed along, * On the western slope of these mountains 
Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of the Mission. 

Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus. 

Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they hear him.‘ 

Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline answered, 1170 

‘Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us!’ 

Thither they turned their steeds; and behind a spur of the mountains, 

Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices, 

And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river, 

Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit Mission. 

Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the viilage, 

Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix fastened 

High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grapevines, 

Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling beneath it. 

This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate arches 1184 

Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers, 

Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the branches. 

Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer approaching, 

Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening devotions. 

But when the service was done, and the benediction had fallen 

Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands of the 
sower, 

Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade them 

Welcome; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant expression, 

Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the forest, 


And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wigwam. 1190 
There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the maize- 
ear 


Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the teacher. 
Soon was their story told; and the priest with solemnity answered:: 
‘Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated 

On this mat by my side, where now the maiden reposes, 

Told me this same sad tale; then arose and continued his journey !? 


EVANGELINE - 115 








Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent of kine. 


Ness ; 
But on Evangeline’s heart fell his words as in winter the snow-flakes 
Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have departed. 1199 


‘Far to the north he has gone,’ continued the priest; ‘ but in autumn, 
When the chase is done, will return again to the Mission.’ 

Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive, 

‘Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and afflicted.’ 

So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes on the morrow, 
Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides and companions, 
Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the Mission. 


Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other, — 

Days and weeks and months; and the fields of maize that were springing 

Green from the ground when a stranger she came, now waving above 
her, 

Lifted their slender shafts. with leaves interlacing, and forming 1210 

Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged by squirrels. 

Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens 

Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover, 

But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the corn-field. 

Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover. 

‘Patience!’ the priest would say; ‘have faith, and thy prayer will be 
answered! 

Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head from the meadow, 

Se2 how its leaves are turned to the north, as true as the magnet; 

This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has planted 

Here in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller’s journey 1220 

Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert. 

Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion, 

Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of fragrance, 

But they beguile us, and Jead us astray, and their odor is deadly 

Only this humble plant can guide us here, and hereafter 

Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the dews of nepen- 
the.’ 


So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter, — yet Gabriel came 
not; 
Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and bluebird 
Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel came not. 
But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was watfted 1230 
Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blossom. 
Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan forests, 
Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw River. 
And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St. Lawrence, 
Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mission. 
When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches, 
She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests, 
Found she the hunter’s lodge deserted and fallen to ruin! 


Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and places 
Divers and distant far was seen the wandering maiden ; — 1240 


116 . EVANGELINE 


a NT 


Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian Missions, 

Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army, 

Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities. 

Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered. 

Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long journey ; 

Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it ended. 

Each succeeding year stole something away from her beauty, 

Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the shadow. 

Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray o’er her fore- 
head, 

Dawn of another life, that broke o’er her earthly horizon, 1258 

As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning. 


, 


vi 


In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware waters, 

Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle, 

Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded. 

There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty, 

And the streets still reécho the names of the trees of the forest, 

AS if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested. 

There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile, 

Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country. 

There old René Leblane had died; and when he departed, 1260 

Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants. 

Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the city, 

Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longer a stran- 
ger; 

And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the Quakers, 

For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, 

Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and sisters. 

So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor, 

Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining, 

Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and her foot< 
steps. 

As from the mountain’s top the rainy mists of the morning 1270 

Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us, 

Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets, 

So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far below her, 

Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and the pathway 

Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the distance. 

Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image, 

Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld him, 

Only more beautiful made by his death-like silence and absence. 

Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not. 

Over him years had no power: he was not changed, but transfigured ; 

He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent; 1281 

Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others, 

This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. 

So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices, 

Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. 

Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow 


EVANGELINE 117 


eee 


Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. 

Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; frequenting 

Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city, 

Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sunlight, 1290 

Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neglected. 

Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman 
repeated 

Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city, 

High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper. 

Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs 

Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the market, 

Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings. 


Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city, 

Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild pigeons, 

Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their craws but an 
acorn. 1300 

And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of September, 

Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the meadow, 

So death flooded life, and, o’erflowing its natural margin, 

Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence. 

Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the oppressor ; 

But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his anger ; — 

Only, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants, 

Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless. 

Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and wood- 
lands ; — 

Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gateway and wicket 1310 

Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seemed to echo 

Softly the words of the Lord: ‘The poor ye always have with you.’ 

Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying 

Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there 

Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor, 

Such as the artist paints o’er the brows of saints and apostles, 

Or such as hangs by night o’er a city seen at a distance. 

Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial, 

Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would enter. 


Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and 
silent, 1320 
Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse. 
Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the garden; 
And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among them, 
That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty. 
Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east- 
wind, 
Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Chris: 
Church, 
While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted 
Bounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church ah 
Wicaco. 


118 EVANGELINE 


SE 


Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit: 
Something within her said, ‘ At length thy trials are ended :’ 1330 
And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness. 
Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, 
Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence 
Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their faces, 
Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the roadside. 
Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered, 

Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her presence 
Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a prison. 

Aud, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler, 

Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever. 1340 
Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night time; 
Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers. 


Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, 

Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a shudder 

Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped from her 
fingers, 

And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning. 

Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish, 

That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows. 

On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old man. 

Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his temples; 1356 

But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment 

Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood; 

So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are dying. 

Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever, 

As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinked its portals, 

That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over. 

Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted 

Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the darkness, 

Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking. 

Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations, 1360 

Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that sueceeded 

Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, 

“Gabriel! O my beloved!’ and died away into silence. 

Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood ; 

Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, 

Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their 
shadow, 

As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. 

Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, 

Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. 

Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered 1370 

Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have 
spoken. 

Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him, 

Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. 

Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness. 

As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. 


DEDICATION 1x9 





All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, 
All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, 
All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience! 
And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, 1379 
Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, * Father, I thank thee !? 


Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, 

Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping. 

Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard, 

In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed. 

Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, 

Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever, 

Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy, 

Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their la- 
bors, 

Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey! 


Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its branches 
Dwells another race, with other customs and language. 1391 
Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic 
Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile 
Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom, 

In the fisherman’s cot the wheel and the loom are still busy; 
Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun, 
And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline’s story, 

While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean 
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. 


Miho voli ANS LB ohik Sip 


And pause, and turn to listen, as 


DEDICATION each sends 
His words of friendship, comfort, 
AS one who, walking in the twi- and assistance. 


light gloom, 
Hears round about him voices | If any thought of mine, or sung or 


as it darkens, told, 
And seeing not the forms from Has ever given delight or conso- 
which they come, lation, 
Pauses from time to time,and | Ye have repaid me back a thou- 
turns and hearkens ; sand-fold, 
By every friendly sign and salu- 
So walking here in twilight, O my tation. 


friends ! 
I hear your voices, softened by | Thanks for the sympathies that 
the distance, ye have shown! 


120 


THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE 





Thanks for each kindly word, 
each silent token, 
That teaches me, when seeming 
most alone, 
Friends are around us, though 
no word be spoken. 


Kind messages, that pass from 
land to land; 
Kind letters, that betray the 
heart’s deep history, 
In which we feel the pressure of a 
hand, — 
One touch of fire, —and all the 
rest is mystery! 


The pleasant books, that silently 
among 
Our household treasures take 
familiar places, 
And are to us as if a living 
tongue 
Spake from the printed leaves or 
pictured faces! 


Perhaps on earth I never shall 
behold, 
With eye of sense, your outward 
form and semblance; 
Therefore to me ye never will grow 
old, : 
But live forever young in my re- 
membrance! 


Never grow old, nor change, nor 
pass away! 
Your gentle voices will flow on 
forever, 
When life grows bare and tar- 
nished with decay, 
As through a leafless landscape 
flows a river. 


Not chance of birth or place has 
made us friends, 
Being oftentimes of different 
tongues and nations, 
But the endeavor for the selfsame 
ends, 
With the same hopes, and fears, 
and aspirations. 


Therefore I hope to join your sea- 
side walk, 
Saddened, and mostly silent, 
with emotion; 
Not interrupting with intrusive 
talk 
The grand, majestic sympho- 
nies of ocean. 


Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome 
guest, 
At your warm firéside, when the 
lamps are lighted, 
To have my place reserved among 
the rest, 
Nor stand as one unsought and 
uninvited ! 


BY THE SEASIDE 
THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP 


‘BuILpD me Straight, O worthy 
Master! 
Stanch and strong, a goodly 
vessel, 
That shall laugh at all disaster, 
And with wave and whirlwind 
wrestle!’ a 
The merchant’s word 
Delighted the Master heard ; 
For his heart was in his work, and 
the heart 
Giveth grace unto every Art. . 
A quiet smile played round his 


lips, 
As the eddies and dimples of the 
tide 1G 


Play round the bows of ships, 

That steadily at anchor ride. 

And with a voice that was full of 
glee, 

He answered, ‘Erelong we will 
launch 

A vessel as goodly, and strong, and 
stanch, 

As ever weathered a wintry sea!’ 

And first with nicest skill and art, 

Perfect and finished in every part, 


THE BUILDING’ OF THE SHIP 


12! 





A little model the Master wrought, 

Which should be to the larger 
plan 20 

What the child is to the man, 

Its counterpart in miniature ; 

That with a hand more swift and 


sure 
The greater labor might be 
brought 


To answer to his inward thought. 

And as he labored, his mind ran 
o’er 

The various ships that were built 
of yore, 

And above them all, and Se bee 
of all 

Towered the Great Harry, crank 
and tall, 

Whose picture was hanging on the 


wall, 30 

With bows and stern raised high 
in air, 

And balconies hanging here and 
there, 

And signal lanterns and flags 


afloat, 
And eight round towers, like those 
that frown 
From some old 
down 
Upon the 
moat. 
And he said with a smile, 
ship, I wis, 
Shall be of another form than 
this!’ 
It was of another form, indeed ; 
Built for freight, and yet for 
speed, 40 
A beautiful and gallant craft ; 
| Broad in the beam, that the stress 
of the blast, 
' Pressing down upon sail and mast, 
| Might not the sharp bows over- 
whelm ; 
' Broad in the beam, but sloping 
aft 
With graceful curve and slow de- 
grees, 
That she might be docile to the 
helm, 


castle, looking 
drawbridge and the 


‘Our 


i rerteeinecnnaren 


And that the currents of parted 
seas, 

Closing behind, with mighty force, 

Might aid and not impede her 
course. 50 


In the ship-yard stood the Master, 

With the model of the vessel, 

That should laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and_ whirlwind 
wrestle! 


Covering many a rood of ground, 

Lay the timber piled around; 

Timber of chestnut, and elm, and 
oak, 

And scattered here and there, with 
these, 

The knarred and crooked cedar 
knees ; 59 

Brought from regions far away, 

From Pascagoula’s sunny bay, 

And the banks of the roaring 
Roanoke! 

Ah! what a wondrous thing it is 

To note how many wheels of toil 

One thought, one word, can set in 
motion! 


There’s not a ship that sails the) 


ocean, 
But every climate, every soil, 
Must bring its tribute, great or| 
small, | 
And help to build the wooden 


wall! 69 


The sun was rising o’er the sea, 

And long the level shadows lay, 

As if they, too, the beams would 
be 

Of some great, airy argosy, 

Framed and launched in a single 
day. 

That silent architect, the sun, 

Had hewn and laid them every 
one, 

Ere the work of man was yet 
begun. 

Beside the Master, when he spoke, 

A youth, against an anchor lean- 
ing, 


i 
| 
| 
| 


122 


THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE 





Listened, to catch his slightest 
meaning. 80 
Only the long waves, as they broke 
In ripples on the pebbly beach, 
Interrupted the old man’s speech. 


Beautiful they were, in sooth, 

The old man and the fiery youth! 

The old man, in whose busy brain 

Many a ship that sailed the main 

Was modelled o’er and o’er 
again ;— 


| The fiery youth, who was to be 


The heir of his dexterity, 90 

The heir of his house, and his 
daughter’s hand, 

When he had built and launched 
from land 

What the elder head had planned. 


‘Thus,’ said he, * will we build this 
ship! 

Lay square the blocks upon the 
slip, 

And follow well this plan of mine. 


[Choose the timbers with greatest 


Ei Siete erm 


era 


eare ; 
Of all that is unsound beware; 
For only what is sound and strong 
To this vessel shall belong. 100 
Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine 
Here together shall combine. 
A goodly frame, and a goodly 
fame, 
And the UNION be her name! 


‘For the day that gives her to the 


sea 
Shall give my daughter unto thee!’ 


The Master’s word 

Enraptured the young man heard; 

Andas he turned his face aside, 

With a look of joy and a thrill of 
pride, 110 

Standing before 

Her father’s door, 

He saw the form of his promised 
bride. 

The sun shone on her golden hair, 

And her cheek was glowing fresh 
and fair, 


With the breath of morn and the 
soft sea air. 

Like a beauteous barge was she, 

Still at rest on the sandy beach, 

Just beyond the billow’s reach; 

But he 120 

Was the restless, seething, stormy 
sea! 

Ah, how skilful grows the hand 

That obeyeth Love’s command! 

It is the heart, and not the brain, 

That to the highest doth attain, 

And he who followeth Love’s be- 
hest 

Far excelleth all the rest! 


Thus with the rising of the sun 

Was the noble task begun, 

And soon throughout the ship- 
yard’s bounds 


130 
Were heard the intermingled 
sounds 


Of axes and of mallets, plied 

With vigorous arms on every side; 

Plied so deftly and so well, 

That, ere the shadows of evening 
Tels 

The keel of oak for a noble ship, 

Scarfed and bolted, straight and 
strong, 

Was lying ready, and stretched 
along 

The blocks, well placed upon the 
slip. 139 

Happy, thrice happy, every one 

Who sees his labor well begun, 

And not perplexed and multiplied, 

By idly waiting for time and tide! 


And when the hot, long day was 
over, 

The young man at the Master’s 
door 

Sat with the maiden calm and 
still, 

And within the porch, a little more 

Removed beyond the evening chill, 

The father sat, and told thein 
tales 

Of wrecks in the great September 
gales, 150 


THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP 


123 





Of pirates coasting the Spanish 
Main, 

And ships that never came back 
again, 

The chance and change of a sail- 
or’s life, 

Want and plenty, rest and strife, 

His roving fancy, like the wind, 

That nothing can stay and nothing 
ean bind, 

And the magic charm of foreign 
lands, 

With shadows of palms, and shin- 
ing sands, 

Where the tumbling surf, 

O’er the coral reefs of Madagas- 
car, 160 

Washes the feet of the swarthy 
Lascar, 

As he lies alone and asleep on the 
turf. 

And the trembling maiden held 
her breath 

At the tales of that awful, pitiless 
sea, 

With all its terror and mystery, 

The dim, dark sea, so like unto 
Death, 

That divides and yet unites man- 
kind! 

And whenever the old man paused, 
a gleam 

From the bowl of his pipe would 
awhile illume 

The silent group in the twilight 


gloom, 170 
And thoughtful faces, as in a 
dream; 


And for a moment one might mark 
What had been hidden by the 


dark, 

That the head of the maiden lay at 
rest, 

Tenderly, on the young man’s 
breast! 


Day by day the vessel grew, 

With timbers fashioned strong and 
true, 

Stemson and keelson and sternson- 
knee, 


Till, framed with perfect sym: 
metry, 

A skeleton ship rose up to view! 

And around the bows and along 


the side 181 
The heavy hammers and malHets 
plied, 


Till after many a week, at length, 

Wonderful for form and strength, 

Sublime in its enormous bulk, 

Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk, 

And around it columns of smoke, 
upwreathing, 

Rose from the boiling, bubbling, 
seething 

Caldron, that glowed, 

And overflowed 190 

With the black tar, heated for the 
sheathing. 

And amid the clamors 

Of clattering hammers, 

He who listened heard now and 
then 

The song of the Master and his 
men :— 


‘Build me straight, O worthy Mas- 


muck: 
Stanch and strong, a goodly ves- 
sel, 
That shall laugh at all disas- 
ter, 


And with wave and whirlwind 
wrestle!’ 


With oaken brace and copper 
band, 200 

Lay the rudder on the sand, 

That, like a thought, should have 
control 

Over the movement of the whole; 

And near it the anchor, whose 
giant hand 

Would reach down and grapple 
with the land, 

And immovable and fast 

Hold the great ship against the 
bellowing blast! 

And at the bows an image stood, 

By a cunning artist carved in 
wood, 


124 


THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE 





With robes of white, that far be- 


hind 210 

Seemed to be fluttering in the 
wind. 

It was: not shaped in a classic 
mould, 

Not like a Nymph or Goddess of 
old, 


Or Naiad rising from the water, 

But modelled from the Master’s 
daughter ! 

On many a dreary and misty 
night, 

*T will be seen by the rays of the 
signal light, 

Speeding along through the rain 
and the dark, 

Like a ghost in its snow-white 
sark, 219 

The pilot of some phantom bark, 

Guiding the vessel, in its flight, 

By a path none other knows 
aright! 


Behold, at last, 

Each tall and tapering mast 
Is swung into its place ; 
Shrouds and stays 

Holding it firm and fast! 


Long ago, 

In the deer-haunted forests of 
Maine, 

When upon mountain and plain 

Lay the snow, 

They fell, —those lordly pines! 

Those grand, majestic pines! 

*Mid shouts and cheers 

The jaded steers, 

Panting beneath the goad, 

Dragged down the weary, winding 


231 


road 

Those captive kings so straight 
and tall, 

To be shorn of their streaming 
hair, 


And naked and bare, 240 
To feel the stress and the strain 
Of the wind and the reeling main, 
Whose roar 

Would remind them forevermore 


Of their native forests they should 
not see again. 


And everywhere 

The slender, graceful spars 

Poise aloft in the air, 

And at the mast-head, 

White, blue, and red, 250 

A flag unrolls the stripes and 
stars. 

Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, 
friendless, 

In foreign harbors shall behold 

That flag unrolled, 

*T will be as a friendly hand 

Stretched out from his native land, 

Filling his heart with memories 
sweet and endless! 


Allis finished! and at length 
Has come the bridal day 


Of beauty and of strength. 260 

To-day the vessel shall be 
launched! 

With fleecy clouds the sky is 
blanched, 


And o’er the bay, 

Slowly, in all his splendors dight, 

The great sun rises to behold the 
sight. 

The ocean old, 

Centuries old, 

Strong as youth, and as uncon- 
trolled, 

Paces restless to and fro, 

Up and down the sands of gold. 

His beating heart is not at rest; 

And far and wide, 

With ceaseless flow, 

His beard of snow 

Heaves with the heaving of his 
breast. 

He waits impatient for his bride. 

There she stands, - 

With her foot upon the sands, 

Decked with flags and streamers 
gay, 

In honor of her marriage day, 28a 

Her snow-white signals fluttering, 
blending, 

Round her like a veil descending, 


269 


THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP 


Ready to be 
The bride of the gray old sea. 


On the deck another bride 

Is standing by her lover’s side. 

Shadows from the flags and 
shrouds, 

Like the shadows cast by clouds, 

Broken by many a sudden fleck, 

Fall around them on the deck. 290 


The prayer is said, 

The service read, 

The joyous bridegroom bows his 
head ; 

And in tears the good old Master 

Shakes the brown hand of his son, 

Kisses his daughter’s glowing 
cheek 

In silence, for he cannot speak, 

And ever faster 

Downhisown the tears begin torun, 

The worthy pastor — 300 

The shepherd of that wandering 
flock, 

That has the ocean for its wold, 

That has the vessel for its fold, 

Leaping ever from rock to rock — 

Spake, with accents mild and clear, 

Words of warning, words of cheer, 

But tedious to the bridegroom’s 
ear. 

He knew the chart 

Of the sailor’s heart, 

All its pleasures and its griefs, 

All its shallows and rocky reefs, 

All those secret currents, that flow 

With such resistless undertow, 

And lift and drift, with terrible 
force, 

The will from its moorings and its 
course. 

Therefore he spake, and thus said 
he : — 


399 


*Like unto ships far off at sea, 
Outward or homeward bound, are 
we, 
Before, behind, and all around, 
Floats and swings the horizon’s 
' pound, 320 





125 





Seems at its distant rim to rise 
And climb the erystal wall of the 


skies, 

And then again to turn and 
sink, 

As if we could slide from its outer 
brink. 


Ah! it is not the sea, 

It is not the sea that sinks and” 
shelves, 

But ourselves 

That rock and rise ’ 

With endless and uneasy mo- 
tion, 

Now touching the very skies, 330 

Now sinking into the depths of 


ocean. 

Ah! if our souls but poise and 
swing 

Like the compass in its brazen 
ring, 


Ever level and ever true 

To the toil and the task we have 
to do, 

We Shall sail securely, and safely 
reach 

The Fortunate Isles, on whose 
shining beach 

The sights we see, and the sounds 
we hear, 

Will be those of joy and not of 
fear!’ 


Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command, 

Waved his hand; 

And at the word, 

Loud and sudden there was heard, 

All around them and below, 

The sound of hammers, blow on 
blow, 

Knocking away the shores and 
spurs. 

And see! she stirs! 

She starts, — she 
seems to feel 

The thrill of life along her keel, 

And, spurning with her foot the 
ground, 35! 

With one exulting, joyous bound, 

She leaps into the ocean’s arms! 


340 


moves, — she 


enone 76 


126 


And lo! from the assembled crowd 

There rose a shout, prolonged and 
loud, 

__. that to the ocean seemed to say, 

‘Take her, O bridegroom, old and 
gray, 

Take her to thy protecting arms, 

With all her youth and all her 
charms!’ 


ee em 


How beautiful she is! How 

fair 360 

She lies within those arms, that 
press 


Her form with many a soft caress 

Of tenderness and watchful care! 

Sail forth into the sea, O ship! 

Through wind and wave, right on- 
ward steer! 


The moistened eye, the trembling 


lip, 
Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 


' Sail forth into the sea of life, 

| O gentle, loving, trusting wife, 
| And safe from all adversity 

| Upon the bosom of that sea 
/Thy comings and thy goings be! 


37° 


| For gentleness and love and trust 


Prevail o’er angry wave and gust! 

| And in the wreck of noble lives 

| Something immortal still survives! 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! 

Sail on, O UNION, strong and 
great! 

Humanity with all its fears, 

With all the hopes of future 
years, 380 

Is hanging breathless on thy fate! 

We know what Master laid thy 
keel, 

What Workmen wrought thy ribs 
of steel, 

Who made each mast, and sail, and 
rope, 

What anvils rang, what hammers 
beat, 

In what a forge and what a heat 

Were shaped the anchors of thy 
hope! 





THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE 


Fear not each sudden sound and 
shock, 

*T is of the wave and not the rock; 

Tis but the flapping of the 
sail, 390 

And not a rent made by the gale! 

In spite of rock and tempest’s 
roar, 

In spite of false lights on the shore, 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the 
sea! 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with 
thee, 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, 
our tears, 5 

Our faith triumphant o’er our fears, 

Are all with thee,—are all with 
thee! 


SEAWEED 


WHEN descends on the Atlantic 
The gigantic 
Storm-wind of the equinox, 
Landward in his wrath he scourges 
The toiling surges, 
Laden with seaweed from the 
rocks: 


From Bermuda’s reefs ; from edges 
‘Of sunken ledges, 

In some far-off, bright Azore; 

From Bahama, and the dashing, 
Silver-flashing 

Surges of San Salvador ; 


From the tumbling surf, that 
buries 
The Orkneyan skerries, 
Answering the hoarse Hebrides; 
And from wrecks of ships, and 
drifting 
Spars, uplifting 
On the desolate, rainy seas ; — 


Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 
On the shifting 
Currents of the restless main ; 
Tillin sheltered coves, and reaches 
Of sandy beaches, 
All have found repose again. 


THE, SEGRETWONreTHE, SEA 


127 





So when storms of wild emotion 
Strike the ocean 
Of the poet’s soul, erelong 
From each cave and rocky fast- 
ness, 
In its vastness, 
floats some fragment of a song: 


From the far-off isles enchanted, 
Heaven has planted 
With the golden fruit of Truth; 
From the flashing surf, whose 
vision 
Gleams Elysian 
In the tropic clime of Youth; 


From the strong Will, and the En- 
deavor 
That forever 
‘Wrestle with the tides of Fate; 
From the wreck of Hopes far- 
scattered, 
Tempest-shattered, 
Floating waste and desolate ; — 


Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 
On th shifting 
Currents of the restless heart; 
Till at length in books recorded, 
They, like hoarded 
Household words, no more depart. 


CHRYSAOR 


In the first edition of The Seaside and 
the Fireside this poem bore the title of 
The Evening Star. 


JUST above yon sandy bar, 
As the day grows fainter and 
dimmer, 
Lonely and lovely, a single star 
Lights the air with a dusky 
glimmer. 


Into the ocean faint and far 
Falls the trail of its golden 
splendor, 
And the gleam of that single star 
Is ever refulgent, soft, and 
tender. 


Chrysaor, rising out of the sea, 
Showed thus glorious and thus 
emulous, 
Leaving the arms of Callirrhoé, 
Forever tender, soft, and tremu- 
lous. 


Thus o’er the ocean faint and far 
Trailed the gleam of his falchion 
brightly ; 
Is it a God, or is it a star 
That, entranced, I gaze on 
nightly ! 


THE SECRET OF THE SEA 


AH! what pleasant visions haunt 
me 
As I gaze upon the sea! 
All the old romantie legends, 
Allmy dreams, come back to me, 


Sails of silk and ropes of sandal, 
Such as gleam in ancient lore; 

And the singing of the sailors, 
And the answer from the shore} 


Moat of all, the Spanish ballad 
Haunts me oft, and tarries long, 
Of the noble Count Arnaldos 
And the sailor’s mystic song. 


Like the long waves onasea-beach, 
Where the sand as silver shines, 
With a soft, monotonous cadence, 
Flow its unrhymed lyric lines ; — 


Telling how the Count Arnaldos, 
With his hawk upon his hand, 

Saw a fair and stately galley, 
Steering onward to the land ; — 


How he heard the ancient helms- 
man 
Chant a song so wild and clear, 
That the sailing sea-bird slowly 
Poised upon the mast to hear, 


Till his soul was full of longing, 
And he cried, with impulse 
strong, — 


128 


THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE 








= 


*‘Helmsman! for the love of hea- 
ven, 
Teach me, too, that wondrous 
song!’ 


*Wouldst thou,,—so the helms- 
man answered, 
‘Learn the secret of the sea? 
Only those who brave its dangers 
Comprehend its mystery !? 


In each sail that skims the hori- 
zon, 
each 
breeze, 
I behold that stately galley, 
Hear those mournful melodies; 


In landward - blowing 


Till my soul is full of longing 
For the secret of the sea, 
And the heart of the great ocean 
Sends a thrilling pulse through 
me. 


TWILIGHT 


THE twilight is sad and cloudy, 
The wind blows wild and free, 

And like the wings of sea-birds 
Flash the white caps of the sea. 


But in the fisherman’s cottage 
There shines a ruddier light, 

Anda little face at the window 
Peers out into the night. 


Close, close it is pressed to the 
window, 
As if those childish eyes 
Were looking into the darkness 
To see some form arise. 


And a woman’s waving shadow 
_ Is passing to and fro, 
Now rising to the ceiling, 

Now bowing and bending low. 


What tale do the roaring ocean, 
And the night-wind, bleak and 
wild, 


As they beat at the crazy case 
ment, 
Tell to that little child? 


And why do the roaring ocean, 
And the night-wind, wild and 
bleak, 
As they beat at the heart of the 
mother 
Drive the color from her cheek ¢ 


SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT 


SOUTHWARD with fleet of ice 
Sailed the corsair Death; 
Wild and fast blew the blast, 
And the east - wind was his 
breath. 


His lordly ships of ice 
Glisten in the sun; 

On each side, like pennons wide, 
Flashing crystal streamlets run. 


His sails of white sea-mist 
Dripped with silver rain ; 
But where he passed there were 
cast 
Leaden shadows o’er the main. 


Eastward from Campobello 
Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed ; 
Three days or more seaward he 
bore, 
Then, alas! the land-wind failed. 


Alas! the land-wind failed, 
And ice-cold grew the night: 
And nevermore, on sea or shore, 
Should Sir Humphrey see the 
light. 


He sat upon the deck, 
The Book was in his hand; 
‘Do not fear! Heaven is as 
near,’ 
He said, ‘ by water as by land!? 


In the first watch of the night, 
Without a signal’s sound, 


THE LIGHTHOUSE 


129 





Out-of the sea, mysteriously, 
The fleet of Death rose all 
around. 


The moon and the evening star 
Were hanging in the shrouds; 
Every mast, as it passed, 
Seemed to rake the passing 
clouds. 


They grappled with their prize, 
At midnight black and cold! 

As of a rock was the shock; 
Heavily the ground-swell rolled. 


Southward through day and dark, 
They drift in close embrace, 
With mist and rain, o’er the open 
main ; 
Yet there seems no change of 
place. 


Southward, forever southward, 
They drift through dark and day; 
And like a dream, in the Gulf- 
Stream 
Sinking, vanish all away. 


THE LIGHTHOUSE 


THE rocky ledge runs far into the 
sea, 
And on its outer point, some 
miles away, 
The Lighthouse lifts its massive 
masonry, 
A pillar of fire by night, of cloud 
by day. 


Even at this distance I can see the 
tides, 
Upheaving, break unheard along 
its base, 
A speechless wrath, that rises and 
subsides 
In the white lip and tremor of 
the face. 


And as the evening darkens, lo! 
how bright, 

Through the deep purple of the 
twilight air, 


Beams forth the sudden radiance 
of its light 
With strange, unearthly splen- 
dor in the glare! 


Not one alone; from each project- 
ing cape 
And perilous reef along the 
ocean’s verge, — 
Starts into life a dim, gigantic 
shape, f 
Holding its lantern o’er the rest- 
less surge. 


Like the great giant Christopher 
it stands 
Upon the brink of the tempestu- 
ous wave, 
Wading far out among the rocks 
and sands, 
The night-o’ertaken mariner to 
save. 


And the great ships sail outward 
and return, 
Bending and bowing o’er the 
billowy swells, 
And ever joyful, as they see it 
burn, 
They wave their silent welcomes 
and farewells. 


They come forth from the dark- 
ness, and their sails 
Gleam for a moment only in the 
blaze, 
And eager faces, as the light un- 
veils, 
Gaze at the tower, and vanish 
while they gaze. 


The mariner remembers when a 
child, 
On his first voyage, he saw it 
fade and sink; 
And when, returning from adven- 
tures wild, 
He saw it rise again o’er ocean’s 
brink. 


Steadfast, serene, immovable, the 
saine 


330 





Year after year, through all the 
silent night 
Burns on forevermore that quench- 
less flame, 
Shines on that inextinguishable 
light! 


It sees the ocean to its bosom 
clasp 
The rocks and sea-sand with the 
kiss of peace; 
It sees the wild winds lift it in 
their grasp, 
And hold it up, and shake it like 
a fleece. 


The startled waves leap over it; 
the storm 
Smites it with all the scourges 
of the rain, 
And steadily against 
form 
Press the great shoulders of the 
hurricane. 


its solid 


The sea-bird wheeling round it, 
with the din 
Of wings and winds and solitary 
cries, 
Blinded and maddened by the light 
within, 
Dashes himself against the glare, 
and dies. 


A new Prometheus, chained upon 
the rock, 
Still grasping in his hand the fire 
of Jove, 
It does not hear the cry, nor heed 
the shock, 
But hails the mariner with words 
of love. 


‘Sail on!’ it says, ‘sail on, ye 
stately ships! 
And with your floating bridge 
the ocean span; 
Be mine to guard this light from 
all eclipse, 
Be yours to bring man nearer 
unto man!’ 


THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE 


—eeeeeeeeeees oo. 


THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD 


DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MAR: 
BLEHEAD 


WE sat within the farm - house 
old, 

Whose windows, looking o’er the 
bay, 

Gave to the sea-breeze damp and 
eold 

An easy entrance, night and day. 


Not far away we saw the port, 
The strange, old-fashioned, si. 
lent town, 
The lighthouse, the dismantled 
fort, 
The wooden houses, quaint and 
brown. 


We sat and talked until the night, 
Descending, filled the little 
room ; 
Our faces faded from the sight, 
Our voices only broke the 
gloom. 


We spake of many a vanished 
scene, 
Of what we once had thought 
and said, 
Of what had been, and might have 
been, 
And who was changed, and wha 
was dead; 


And all that fills the hearts of 
friends, 
When first they feel, with secret 
pain, 
Their lives thenceforth have sep- 
arate ends, 
And never can be one again; 


The first slight swerving of the 
heart, 
That words are powerless to 
express, 
And leave it still unsaid in part, 
Or say it in too great excess. 


RESIGNATION 





in which we 


The very tones 
spake 
Had something strange, I could 
but mark ; 
The leaves of memory seemed to 
make 
A mournful rustling 
dark. 


in the 


ft died the words upon our 
lips, 
As suddenly, from out the fire 
Built of the wreck of stranded 
ships, 
The flames would leap and then 
expire. 


And, as their splendor flashed and 
failed, 

We thought of wrecks upon the 
main, 

Of ships dismasted, that were 
hailed 

And sent no answer back again. 


The windows, rattling in their 
frames, 

The ocean, 
beach, 

The gusty blast, the bickering 
flames, 

All mingled vaguely in 
speech; 


roaring up the 


Our 


Ontil they made themselves a 
part 
Of fancies floating through the 
brain, 
The long-lost ventures of the 
heart, 
That send no answers back 
again. 


O flames that glowed! 
that yearned! 
They were indeed too much 
akin, 
The drift-wood fire without that 
burned, 
The thoughts that burned and 
glowed within. 


O hearts 


131 


BY THE FIRESIDE 
RESIGNATION 





THERE is no flock, however 
watched and tended, 
But one dead lamb is there! 
There is no fireside, howsoe’er de- 
fended, 
But has one vacant chair! 


The air is full of farewells to the 
dying, 
And mournings for the dead ; 
The heart of Rachel, for her chik 
dren erying, 
Will not be comforted ! 
Let us be patient! These severe 
afflictions 
Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedic- 
tions 
Assume this dark disguise. 


We see but dimly through the 
mists and vapors; 
Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad, funereal 
tapers 
May be heaven’s distant lamps. 
There is no Death! What seems 
so is transition ; 
This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 
Whose portal we call Death. 


She 1s not dead, —the child of our 
affection, — 
But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our 
poor protection, 
And Christ himself doth rule. 


In that great cloister’s stillness 
and seclusion, 
By guardian angels led, 
Safe from temptetion, safe from 
sin’s pollution, 
She lives, whom we call dead. 


132 THE 


SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE 





Day after day we think what she | Nothing useless is, or low; 


is doing 
In those bright realms of air; 
Year after year, her tender steps 
pursuing, 
Behold her grown more fair. 


Thus do we walk with her, and 
keep unbroken 
The bond which nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance, 
though unspoken, 
May reach her where she lives. 


Not as a child shall we again be- 
hold her ; 
For when with raptures wild 
In our embraces we again enfold 
her, 
She will not be a child; 


But a fair maiden, in her Father’s 
mansion, 
Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul’s 
expansion 
Shall we behold her face. 


And though at times impetuous 
with emotion 
And anguish long suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves moan- 
ing like the ocean, 
That cannot be at rest, — 


We will be patient, and assuage 
the feeling 
We may not wholly stay; 
By silence sanctifying, not conceal- 
ing, 
The grief that must have way. 


THE BUILDERS 


ALL are architects of Fate, 


Working in these walls. of 
Time; 
Some with massive deeds and 


great, 
Some with ornaments of rhyme. 


Each thing in its place is best; 
And what seems but idle show 
Strengthens and supports the 
rest. 


For the structure that we raise, 
Time is with materials filled ; 
Our to-days and yesterdays 
Are the blocks with which we 
build. 


Truly shape and fashion these; 
Leave no yawning gaps be- 
tween; 
Think not, because no man sees, 
Such things will remain unseen. 


In the elder days of Art, 
Builders wrought with greatest 
care 
Each minute and unseen part; 
For the Gods see everywhere. 


Let us do our work as well, 
Both the unseen and the seen; 
Make the house, where Gods may 
dwell, 
Beautiful, entire, and clean. 


Else our lives are incomplete, 
Standing in these walls of Time, 

Broken stairways, where the feet 
Stumble as they seek to climb. 


Build to-day, then, strong and sure, 
With a firm and ample base; 
And ascending and secure 
Shali to-morrow find its place. 


Thus alone can we attain 
To those turrets, where the eye 
Sees the world as one vast plain, 
And one boundless reach of sky, 


SAND OF THE DESERT IN 
AN HOUR-GLASS 


A HANDFUL Of red sand, from the 
hot clime 
Of Arab deserts brought, 


THE OPEN WINDOW 





Within this glass becomes the spy 
of Time, 
The minister of Thought. 


How many weary centuries has it 
been. 
About those deserts blown! 
How many strange vicissitudes 
has seen, 
How many histories known! 


Perhaps the camels of the Ish- 
maelite 
Trampled and passed it o’er, 
When into Egypt from the patri- 
arch’s sight 
His favorite son they bore. 


Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt 
and bare, 
Crushed it beneath their tread, 
Or Pharaoh’s flashing wheels into 
the air 
Scattered it as they sped; 


Or Mary, with the Christ of Naza- 
reth 
Held elose in her caress, 
Whose pilgrimage of hope and 
love and faith 
Illumed the wilderness ; 


Or anchorites beneath Engaddi’s 
palms 
Pacing the Dead Sea beach, 
And singing slow their old Ar- 
menian psalms 
In half-articulate speech ; 


Or caravans, that from Bassora’s 
gate 
With westward steps depart; 
Or Mecea’s pilgrims, confident of 
Fate, 
And resolute in heart ; 


These have passed over it, or may 
have passed! 
Now in this crystal tower 
imprisoned by some curious hand 
at last, 
It counts the passing hour. 


133 





And as I gaze, these narrow walls 
expand ;— 
Before my dreamy eye 
Stretches the desert with its shift. 
ing sand, 
Its unimpeded sky. 


And borne aloft by the sustaining 
blast, 
This little golden thread 
Dilates into a column high and 
vast, 
A form of fear and dread. 


And onward, and across the set- 
ting sun, 
- Across the boundless plain, 
Thecolumnand its broader shadow 
run, 
Till thought pursues in vain. 


The vision vanishes! These walls 
again 
Shut out the lurid sun, 
Shut out the hot, immeasurable 
plain ; 
The half-hour’s sand is run! 


THE OPEN WINDOW 


THE old house by the lindens 
Stood silent in the shade, 

And on the gravelled pathway 
The light and shadow played. 


I saw the nursery windows 
Wide open to the air; 

But the faces of the children, 
They were no longer there. 

The large Newfoundland house- 

dog 

Was standing by the door; 

He looked for his little playmates, 
Who would return no more. 


They walked not under the lin. 
dens, 
They played not in the hall; 
But shadow, and silence, and sad 
ness 
Were hanging over all. 


134 


THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE 





The birds sang in the branches, 
With sweet, familiar tone; 

But the voices of the children 
Will be heard in dreams alone! 


And the boy that walked beside 
me, 
He could not understand 
Why closer in mine, ah! closer, 
I pressed his warm, soft hand! 


KING WITLAF’S DRINKING- 
HORN 


WITLAF, a king of the Saxons, 
Ere yet his last he breathed, 

To the merry monks of Croyland 
His drinking-horn bequeathed, — 


That, whenever they sat at their 
revels, 
And drank from the golden bowl, 
They might remember the donor, 
And breathe a prayer for his 
soul. 


So sat they once at Christmas, 
And bade the goblet pass ; 
In their beards the red wine glis- 
tened 
Like dew-drops in the grass. 


They drank to the soul of Witlaf, 
They drank to Christ the Lord, 
And to each of the Twelve Apos- 

tles, 
Who had preached his holy word. 


They drank to the Saints and Mar- 
tyrs 
Of the dismal days of yore, 
And as soon as the horn was empty 
They remembered one Saint 
more. 


And the reader droned from the 
pulpit, 
Like the murmur of many bees, 
The legend of good Saint Guthlae, 
And Saint Basil’s homilies ; 


Till the great bells of the con 
vent, 
From their prison in the tower, 
Guthlae and Bartholomezus, 
Proclaimed the midnight hour. 


And the Yule-log cracked in the 
chimney, 
And the Abbot bowed his head, 
And the flamelets flapped and 
flickered, 
But the Abbot was stark and 
dead. 


Yet still in his pallid fingers 
He clutched the golden bowt, 

In which, like a pear! dissolving, 
Had sunk and dissolved his soul. 


But not for this their revels 
The jovial monks forbore, 
For they cried, ‘ Fill high the gob- 
let! 
We must drink to one Saint 
more !? 


'GASPAR BECERRA 


By his evening fire the artist 
Pondered o’er his secret shame; 
Baffled, weary, and disheartened, 
Still he mused, and dreamed of 
fame. 


’T was an image of the Virgin 
That had tasked his utmost 
skill; 
But, alas! his fair ideal 
Vanished and escaved him still. 


From a distant Eastern island 
Had the precious wood been 
brought; 
Day and night the anxious master 
At his toil untiring wrought; 


Till, discouraged and cesponding, 
Sat he now in shadows deep, 
And the day’s humiliation 
Found oblivion in sleep. 


PEGASUS IN POUND 


135 





—_— 


Then a voice cried, ‘Rise, O} Wandered down the street pro- 


master ! 
From the burning brand of oak 
Shape the thought that stirs with- 
in thee !’— 
And the startled artist woke, — 


Woke, and from the smoking em- 
bers 
Seized and quenched the glow- 
ing wood; 
And therefrom he carved an image, 
And he saw that it was good. 


O thou sculptor, painter, poet ! 
Take this lesson to thy heart: 

That is best which lieth nearest ; 
Shape from that thy work of art. 


PEGASUS IN POUND 


ONCE into a quiet village, 
Without haste and without heed, 
In the golden prime of morning, 


Strayed the poet’s wingéd steed. 


It was Autumn, and incessant 
Piped the quails from shocks 
and sheaves, 
And, like living coals, the apples 
Burned among the withering 
leaves. 


Loud the clamorous bell was ring- 
ing 
From its belfry gaunt and grim ; 
°T was the daily call to labor, 
Not a triumph meant for him. 


Not the less he saw the landscape, 
In its gleaming vapor veiled ; 

Not the less he breathed the odors 
That the dying leaves exhaled. 


Thus, upon the village common, 
By the school-boys he was found; 

And the wise men, in their wisdom, 
Put him straightway into pound. 


Then the sombre village crier, 
Ringing loud his brazen bell, 


claiming 
There was an estray to sell. 


And the curious country people, 
Rich and poor, and young and 
old, 
Came in haste to see this won- 
drous 
Winged steed, with mane of gold. 


Thus the day passed, and the even- 
ing 
Fell, with vapors cold and dim; 
But it brought no food nor shel- 
ter, 
Brought no straw nor stall, for 
him. 


Patiently, and still expectant, 
Looked he through the wooden 
bars, 
Saw the moon rise o’er the land- 
scape, 
Saw the tranquil, patient stars ; 


Till at length the bell at midnight 
Sounded from its dark abode, 
And, from out a neighboring farm- 

yard, 
Loud the cock Alectryon crowed. 
with nostrils wide dis- 
tended, 
Breaking from his iron chain. 
And unfolding far his pinions, 
To those stars he soared again. 


Then, 


On the morrow, when the village 
Woke to all its toil and care, 


Lo! the strange steed had de- 
parted, 

And they knew not when nor 
where. 


But they found, upon the green- 
sward 
Where his struggling hoofs had 


trod, 
Pure and bright, a fountain flowing 
From the hoof-marks in the sod. 


136 


THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE 





From that hour, the fount unfailing 


Gladdens the whole region 
round, 

Strengthening all who drink its 
waters, 

While it soothes them with its 
sound. 


TEGNER’S DRAPA 


T HEARD a voice, that cried, 
‘Balder the Beautiful 

Is dead, is dead !? 

And through the misty air 
Passed like the mournful cry 
Of sunward sailing cranes. 


I saw the pallid corpse 

Of the dead sun 

Borne through the Northern sky. 
Blasts from Niffelheim 

Lifted the sheeted mists 

Around him as he passed. 


And the voice forever cried, 
* Balder the Beautiful 

Is dead, is dead!’ 

And died away 

Through the dreary night, 
In accents of despair. 


Balder the Beautiful, 

God of the summer sun, 

Fairest of all the Gods! 

Light from his forehead beamed, 
Runes were upon his tongue, 

As on the warrior’s sword. 


All things in earth and air 
Bound were by magic spell 
Never to do him harm ; 
Even the plants and stones; 
All save the mistletoe, 

The sacred mistletoe! 


Heeder, the blind old God, 

Whose feet are shod with silence, 
Pierced through that gentle breast 
With his sharp spear, by fraud, 
Made of the mistletoe, 

The accursed mistletoe ! 


They laid him in his ship, 
With horse and harness, 
As on a funeral pyre. 
Odin placed 

A ring upon his finger, 
And whispered in his ear. 


They launched the burning ship! 
It floated far away 

Over the misty sea, 

Till like the sun it seemed, 
Sinking beneath the waves. 
Balder returned no more ! 


So perish the old Gods! 

But out of the sea of Time 
Rises a new land of song, 
Fairer than the old. 

Over its meadows green 

Walk the young bards and sing. 


Build it again, 

O ye bards, 

Fairer than before ! 

Ye fathers of the new race, 
Feed upon morning dew, 
Sing the new Song of Love! 


The law of force is dead! 
The law of love prevails ! 
Thor, the thunderer, 

Shall rule the earth no more, 
No more, with threats, 
Challenge the meek Christ. 


Sing no more, 

O ye bards of the North, 
Of Vikings and of Jarls! 
Of the days of Eld 
Preserve the freedom only, 
Not the deeds of blood ! 


SONNET 


ON MRS. KEMBLE’S READINGS 
FROM SHAKESPEARE 


O PRECIOUS evenings! all too 

swiftly sped! 

Leaving us heirs to amplest 
heritages 


HYMN 


137 





Of all the best thoughts of the 
greatest sages, 

And giving tongues unto the 
silent dead! 

How our hearts glowed and trem- 

bled as she read, 

Interpreting by tones the won- 
drous pages 

Of the great poet who foreruns 


the ages, 
Anticipating all that shall be 
said! 
O happy Reader! having for thy 
text 


The magic book, whose Sibylline 
leaves have caught 
The rarest essence of all human 
thought! 
Ohappy Poet! by no critic vext! 
How must thy listening spirit 
now rejoice 
To be interpreted by such a voice! 


THE SINGERS 


Gop sent his Singers upon earth 

With songs of sadness and of 
mirth, 

That they might touch the hearts 
of men, 

And bring them back to heaven 
again. 


The first, a youth with soul of 
fire, 

Held in his hand a golden lyre; 

Through groves he wandered, and 
by streams, 

Playing the music of our dreams. 


The second, with a bearded face, 

Stood singing in the market-place, 

And stirred with accents deep and 
loud 

The hearts of all the listening 
crowd. 


A gray old man, the third and last, 
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, 
While the majestic organ rolled 
Contrition from its mouths of gold. 


a ee ee eee 
ee 


And those who heard the Singers 
three 

Disputed which the best might be; 

For still their music seemed tostart 

Discordant echoes in each heart. 


But the great Master said, ‘1 see 

No best in kind, but in degree; 

I gave a various gift to each, 

To charm, to strengthen, and to 
teach. 


‘These are the three great chords 
of might, 

And he whose ear is tuned aright 

Will hear no discord in the three, 

But the most perfect harmony.’ 


SUSPIRIA 
TAKE them, O Death! and bear 
away 
Whatever thou canst call thine 
own! 
Thine image, stamped upon this 
clay, 
Doth give thee that, but that 
alone ! 


Take them, O Grave! 
them lie 
Folded upon thy narrow shelves, 
As garments by the soul laid by, .- 
And precious only to ourselves! 


and let 


Take them, O great Eternity! 
Our little life is but a gust 
That bends the branches of thy 
tree, 
And trails its blossoms in the 
dust! 


HYMN 


FOR MY BROTHER'S ORDINATION 


CHRIST to the young man said: 
‘Yet one thing more; 
Tf thou wouldst perfect be, 
Sell all thou hast and give it to the 
poor, 
And come and follow me!’ 


138 





Within this temple Christ again, 
unseen, 
Those sacred words hath said, 
And his invisible hands to-day 
have been 
Laid on a young man’s head. 


And evermore beside him on his 
way 
The unseen Christ shall move, 
That he may lean upon his arm 
and say, 
‘Dost thou, dear Lord,approve?’ 


THE SONGYOR HiAWATHA 





Beside him at the marriage feast 
shall be, 
To make the scene more fair; 
Beside him in the dark Gethsem- 
ane 
Of pain and midnight prayer. 


O holy trust! O endless sense of 
rest! 
Like the beloved John 
To lay his head upon the Saviour’s 
breast, 
And thus to journey on! 


THE, SONGwOR HAW Adee: 


INTRODUCTION 


SHOULD you ask me, wherice these 
stories? 

Whence these legends and tradi- 
tions, 

With the odors of the forest, 

With the dew and damp of mead- 
ows, 

With the curling smoke of wig- 
wams, 

With the rushing of great rivers, 

With their frequent repetitions, 

And their wild reverberations, 

As of thunder in the mountains ? 

I should answer, I should tell 

you, 10 

‘From the forests and the prairies, 

From the great lakes of the North- 
land, 

From the land of the Ojibways, 

From the land of the Dacotahs, 

From the mountains, moors, and 
fen-lands 

Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh- 
gah, 

Feeds among the reeds and rushes. 

JT repeat them as I heard them 

From the lips of Nawadaha, 19 

The musician, the sweet singer.’ 

Should you ask where Nawadaha 

Found these songs so wild and 

wayward, 


Found these legends and tradi- 
tions, 
I should answer, I should tell 
you, 
‘In the bird’s-nests of the forest, 
In the lodges of the beaver, 
In the hoof-prints of the bison, 
In the eyry of the eagle! 
‘All the wild-fowl sang them to 
him, 29 
In the moorlands and the fen-lands, 
In the melancholy marshes; 
Chetowaik, the plover, sang them, 
Mahng, the loon, the wild-goose, ' 
Wawa, 
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa!? 
Tf still further you should ask me, 
Saying, ‘ Who was Nawadaha? 
Tell us of this Nawadaha,’ 
I should answer your inquiries 
Straightway in such words as fol- 
low. 40 
‘In the vale of Tawasentha, 
In the green and silent valley, 
By the pleasant water-courses, 
Dwelt the singer Nawadaha. 
Round about the Indian village 
Spread the meadows and the corn. 
fields, © 
And beyond them stood the forest, 
Stood the groves of singing pine 
trees, 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


Green in Summer, white in Winter, 

Ever sighing, ever singing. 50 
* And the pleasant water-courses, 

You could trace them through the 

valley, 

By the rushing in the Spring-time, 

By the alders in the Summer, 

By the white fog in the Autumn, 

By the black line in the Winter ; 

‘nd beside them dwelt the singer, 

Tn the vale of Tawasentha, 

In the green and silent valley. 

‘There he sang of Hiawatha, 60 
Sang the Song of Hiawatha, 

Sang his wondrous birth and being, 

How he prayed and how he fasted, 

Hew he lived, and toiled, and suf- 
fered, 

That the tribes of men might pros- 
per, 

That he might advance his people!’ 

Ye who love the haunts of Na- 

ture, 
Love the sunshine of the meadow, 
Love the shadow of the forest, 69 
Love the wind among the branches, 
And the rain-shower and the snow- 
storm, 
And the rushing of great rivers 
Through their palisades of pine- 
trees, 
And the thunder in the mountains, 
Whose innumerable echoes 
Flap like eagles in their eyries ; — 
Listen to these wild traditions, 
To this Song of Hiawatha! 

Ye who love a nation’s legends, 
Love the ballads of a people, 80 
That like voices from afar off 
Call to us to pause and listen, 
Speak in tones so plain and child- 

like, 
Scarcely can the ear distinguish 
Whetherthey are sung or spoken ;— 
Listen to this Indian Legend, 
To this Song of Hiawatha! 
Ye whose hearts are fresh and 
simple, 
Who have faith in God and Nature, 
Who believe that in all ages go 
Every human heart is human, 


139 


That in even savage bosoms 

There are longings, yearnings, 
strivings 

For the good they comprehend not, 

That the feeble hands and helpless, 

Groping blindly in the darkness, 

Touch God’s right hand in that 
darkness 

And are lifted up and strength- 
ened ; — 

Listen to this simple story, 

To this Song of Hiawatha! 100 

Ye, who sometimes, in your ram- 

bles 

Through the green lanes of the 
country, 

Where the tangled barberry-bushes 

Hang their tufts of crimson berries 

Over stone walls gray with mosses, 

Pause by some neglected grave- 
yard, 

For a while to muse, and ponder 

On a half effaced inscription, 

Written with little skill of song- 
craft, 10g 

Homely phrases, but each letter 

Full of hope and yet of heart-break, 

Full of all the tender pathos 

Of the Here and the Hereafter ; — 

Stay and read this rude inscription, 

Read this Song of Hiawatha! 


I 
THE PEACE-PIPE 


ON the Mountains of the Prairie, 

On the great Red _ Pipe-stone 
Quarry, 

Gitche Manito, the mighty, 

He the Master of Life, descending, 

On the red crags of the quarry 

Stood erect, and called the nations, 

Called the tribes of men together. 

From his footprints flowed a 

river, 

Leaped into the light of morning, 

Over the precipice plunging down- 


ward 10 
Gleamed like Ishkoodah, the 
comet. 


140 


And the Spirit, stooping earth- 
ward, 
With his finger on the meadow 
Traced a winding pathway for it, 
Saying to it, ‘ Run in this way!’ 
From the red stone of the quarry 
With his hand he broke a frag- 
ment, 
Moulded it into a pipe-head, 
Shaped and fashioned it 
figures; 
From themargin of the river 20 
Took a long reed for a pipe-stem, 
With its dark green leaves upon it; 
Filled the pipe with bark of willow, 
With the bark of the red willow; 
Breathed upon the neighboring 
forest, 
Made its great boughs chafe to- 
gether, 
Till in flame they burst and kin- 
dled; 
And erect upon the mountains, 
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
Smoked the calumet, the Peace- 
Pipe, 30 
As a Signal to the nations. 
And the smoke rose slowly, 
slowly, 
Through the tranquil air of morn- 
ing, 
First a single line of darkness, 
Then a denser, bluer vapor, 
Then a snow-white cloud unfold- 
ing, 
Like the tree-tops of the forest, 
Ever rising, rising, rising, 
Till it touched the top of heaven, 
Till it broke against the heaven, 40 
And rolled outward all around it. 
From the Vale of Tawasentha, 
From the Valley of Wyoming, 
From the groves of Tuscaloosa, 
From the far-off Rocky Mountains, 
From the Northern lakes and 
rivers 
All the tribes beheld the signal, 
Saw the distant smoke ascending, 
The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe. 
And the Prophets of the na- 
tions 50 


with 





THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





Said: ‘ Behold it, the Pukwana! 
By this signal from afar off, 
Bending like a wand of willow, 
Waving like a hand that beckons, 
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 
Calls the tribes of men together, 
Calls the warriors to his council !? 
Down the rivers, o’er the prairies, 
Came the warriors of the nations, 
Came the Delawares and Mo. 


hawks, 6a 
Came the Choctaws and Caman- 
ches, 
Came the Shoshonies and Black- 
feet, 


Came the Pawnees and Omahas, 
Came the Mandans and Dacotahs, 
Came the Hurons and Ojibways, 
All the warriors drawn together 
By the signal of the Peace-Pipe, 
To the Mountains of the Prairie, 


To thé great Red Pipe-stone 
Quarry. 
And they stood there on the 
meadow, 70 
With their weapons and their war. 
gear, 


Painted like the leaves of Autumn, 

Painted like the sky of morning, 

Wildly glaring at each other ; 

In their faces stern defiance, 

In their hearts the feuds of ages, 

The hereditary hatred, 

The ancestral thirst of vengeance. 
Gitche Manito, the mighty, 


The creator of the nations, 80 
Looked upon them with compas- 
sion, 


With paternal love and pity; 

Looked upon their wrath and 
wrangling 

But as quarrels among children, 

But as feuds and fights of chil- 
dren! 

Over them he stretched his right 

hand, 

To subdue their stubborn natures, 

To allay their thirst and fever, 

By the shadow of his right hand; 

Spake to them with voice ma. 
jestic ga 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


141 





As the sound of far-off waters, 
Falling into deep abysses, 
Warning, chiding, spake in this 
wise :— 
*O my children! my poor chil- 
dren! 
Listen to the words of wisdom, 
Listen to the words of warning, 
From the lips of the Great Spirit, 
From the Master of Life, who 
made you! 
‘I have given you lands to hunt 


in, 
J have given you streams to fish 
in, 100 


I have given you bear and bison, 

I have given you roe and reindeer, 

Ihave given you brant and beaver, 

Filled the marshes full of wild- 
fowl, 

Filled the rivers full of fishes; 

Why then are you not contented? 

Why then will you hunt each 
other ? 

‘Tam weary of your quarrels, 
Weary of your wars and blood- 


shed, 
Weary of your prayers for ven- 
geance, TIO 
Of your wranglings and dissen- 
sions; 


All your strength is in your union, 

All your danger is in discord ; 

Therefore be at peace hencefor- 
ward, 

And as brothers live together. 

“I will send a Prophet to you, 

A Deliverer of the nations, 

Who shall guide you and shall 
teach you, 

Who shall toil and suffer with you. 

If you listen to his counsels, 120 

You will multiply and prosper; 

If his warnings pass unheeded, 

You will fade away and perish! 

‘Bathe now in the stream before 

you, 

Wash the war-paint from your 
faces, 

Wash the blood-stains from your 
fingers, 


Bury your war-clubs and your 


weapons, 

Break the red stone from this 
quarry, 

Mould and make it into Peace- 
Pipes, 

Take the reeds that grow beside 
you, 130 

Deck them with your brightest 
feathers, 


Smoke the calumet together, 


And as brothers live hencefor- 
ward!’ 
Then upon the ground the war- 
riors 


Threw their cloaks and shirts of 
deer-skin, 

Threw their weapons and their 
war-gear, 

Leaped into the rushing river, 

Washed the war-paint from their 
faces. 

Clear above them flowed the water, 

Clear and limpid from the foot- 
prints 140 

Of the Master of Life descending: 

Dark below them flowed the water, 

Soiled and stained with streaks of 
crimson, 

As if blood were mingled with it! 

From the river came the war- 

riors, 

Clean and washed from all their 
Wwar-paint ; 

On the banks their clubs they 
buried, 

Buried all their warlike weapons. 

Gitche Manito, the mighty, 

The Great Spirit, the creator, 150 
Smiled upon his helpless children ! 
And in silence all the warriors 
Broke the red stone of the quarry, 
Smoothed and formed it into Peace- 

Pipes, 
Broke the long reeds by the river, 
Decked them with their brightest 
feathers, 
departed each one home. 
ward, 
While the Master of Life, ascend 
ing, 


And 


142 


Through the opening of cloud-cur- 


tains, 
Through the doorways of the hea- 
ven, 160 


Vanished from before their faces, 

In the smoke that rolled around 
him, 

The Pukwana of the Peace-Pipe! 


II 
THE FOUR WINDS 


‘HONOR be to Mudjekeewis !’ 

Cried the warriors, cried the old 
men, 

When he came in triumph home- 
ward 

With the sacred Belt of Wampum, 

From the regions of the North- 
Wind, 

From the kingdom of Wabasso, 

From the land of the White Rabbit. 

He had stolen the Belt of Wam- 

pum 

From the neck of Mishe-Mokwa, 

From the Great Bear of the moun- 
tains, 10 

From the terror of the nations, 

As he lay asleep and cumbrous 

On the summit of the mountains, 

Like a rock with mosses on it, 

Spotted brown and gray with 
mosses. 

Silently he stole upon him 

Till the red nails of the monster 

Almost touched him, almost scared 
him, 

Till the hot breath of his nostrils 

Warmed the hands of Mudjekee- 
wis, 20 

As he drew the Belt of Wampum 

Over the round ears, that heard 
not, 

Over the small eyes, that saw not, 

Over the long nose and nostrils, 

The black muffle of the nostrils, 

Out of which the heavy breathing 

Warmed the hands of Mudjekee- 
wis, 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





Then he swung aloft his war 
club, 
Shouted-loud and long his war-cry, 
Smote the mighty Mishe-Mokwa 
In the middle of the forehead, 31 
Right between the eyes he smote 
him. 
With the heavy blow bewildered, 
Rose the Great Bear of the moun: 
tains ; 
But his knees beneath him trem- 
bled, 
And he whimpered like a woman, 
As he reeled and staggered for- 
ward, 
As he sat upon his haunches; 
And the mighty Mudjekeewis, 
Standing fearlessly before him, 40 
Taunted him in loud derision, 
Spake disdainfully in this wise :—- 
‘Hark you, Bear! you are a 
coward ; 
And no Brave, as you pretended; 
Else you would not cry and whim. 
per 
Like a miserable woman! 
Bear! you know our tribes are hos- 
tile, 
Long have been at war together; 
Now you find that we are strong- 
est, 
You go sneaking in the forest, 50 
You go hiding in the mountains! 
Had you conquered me in battle 
Not a groan would I have ut- 
tered; 
But you, Bear! sit here and whim- 
per, 
And disgrace your tribe by erying, 
Like a wretched Shaugodaya, 
Like a cowardly old woman!’ 
Then again he raised his war- 
club, 
Smote again the Mishe-Mokwa 
In the middle of his forehead, 6a 
Broke his skull, as ice is broken 
When one goes to fish in Winter. 
Thus was slain the Mishe-Mokwa, 
He the Great Bear of the moun 
tains, 
He the terror of the nations. 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





‘Honor be to Mudjekeewis !’ 

With a shout exclaimed the peo- 
ple, 

‘Honor be to Mudjekeewis! 

Henceforth he shall be the West- 
Wind, 

And hereafter and forever 7o 

Shall he hold supreme dominion 

Over all the winds of heaven. 

Call him no more Mudjekeewis, 

Call him Kabeyun, the West- 
Wind!’ 

Thus was Mudjekeewis chosen 
Father of the Winds of Heaven. 
For himself he kept the West- 

Wind, 
Gave the others to his children ; 
Unto Wabun gave the East-Wind, 
Gave the South to Shawondasee, 
And the North - Wind, wild and 
cruel, 81 
To the fierce Kabibonokka. 
Young and beautiful was Wa- 
bun; 
He it was who brought the morn- 
ng, 
He it was whose silver arrows 
Chased the dark o’er hill and val- 


ley; 

He it was whose cheeks were 
painted 

With the brightest streaks of 
crimson, : 

And whose voice awoke the vil- 
lage, 

Called the deer, and called the 
hunter. go 


Lonely in the sky was Wabun; 
Though the birds sang gayly to 
him, 
Though the wild- flowers of the 
meadow 
Filled the air with odors for 
him; 
Though the forests and the rivers 
Sang and shouted at his coming, 
Still his heart was sad within 
him, 
For he was alone in heaven. 
But one morning, gazing earth- 
ward, 


143 


While the village still was sleep- 
ing, 100 

And the fog lay on the river, 
Like a ghost, that goes at sunrise, 
He beheld a maiden walking 
All alone upon a meadow, 
Gathering water-flags and rushes 
By ariver in the meadow. 

Every morning, gazing earth- 


ward, 
Still the first thing he beheld 
there 108 


Was her blue eyes looking at him, 

Two blue lakes among the rushes. 

And he loved the lonely maiden, 

Who thus waited for his coming ; 

For they both were solitary, 

She on earth and he in heaven. 

And he wooed her with ca 

resses, 

Wooed her with his smile of sun- 
shine, 

With kis flattering words he wooed 
her, 

With his sighing and his singing, 

Gentlest whispers in the branches, 

Softest music, sweetest odors, 120 

Till he drew her to his bosom, 

Folded in his robes of crimson, 

Till into a star he changed her, 

Trembling still upon his bosom; 

And forever in the heavens 

They are seen together walking, 

Wabun and the Wabun-Annung, 

Wabun and the Star of Morning. 

But the fierce Kabibonokka 

Had his dwelling among icebergs, 

In the everlasting snow-drifts, 131 

In the kingdom of Wabasso, 

Tn the Jand of the White Rabbit. 

He it was whose hand in Autumn 

Painted all the trees with scarlet, 

Stained the leaves with red and 
yellow; 

He it was who sent the snow- 
flakes, 

Sifting, hissing through the forest, 

Froze the ponds, the lakes, the 
rivers, 

Drove the loon and sea-gull south- 
ward, 140 


144 





Drove the cormorant and curlew 

To their nests of sedge and sea- 
tang 

In the realms of Shawondasee. 

Once the fierce Kabibonokka 

Issued from his lodge of snow- 
drifts, 

From his home among the ice- 
bergs, 

And his hair, with snow besprin- 
kled, 

Streamed behind him like a river, 

Like a black and wintry river, 

As he howled and hurried south- 
ward, 150 

Over frozen lakes and moorlands. 


There among the reeds and] 


rushes 

Found he Shingebis, the diver, 

Trailing strings of fish behind 
him, 

Over the frozen fens and moor- 
lands, 

Lingering still among the moor- 
lands, 

Though his tribe had long de- 
parted 

To the land of Shawondasee. 

Cried the fierce Kabibonokka, 

‘Who is this that dares to brave 
me? 160 

Dares to stay in my dominions, 

When the Wawa has departed, 

When the wild- goose has gone 
southward, 

And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 

Long ago departed southward 2 

I will go into his wigwam, 

I will put his smouldering fire 
out!’ 

And at night Kabibonokka 
To the lodge came wild and wail- 


ing, 
Heaped the snow in drifts about 
it, 170 


Shouted down into the smoke-flue, 

Shook the lodge-poles in his fury, 

Flapped the curtain of the door- 
way. 

Shingebis, the diver, feared not, 

Shingebis, the diver, cared not; 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





ow 


Four great logs had he for fire 
wood, 

One for each moon of the winter, 

And for food the fishes served 
him. 

By his blazing fire he sat there, 

Warm and merry, eating, laugh- 
ing, 18a 

Singing, ‘O Kabibonokka, 

You are but my fellow-morta!!? 

Then Kabibonokka entered, 


_And though Shingebis, the diver, 


Felt his presence by the coldness, 

Felt his icy breath upon him, 

Still he did not cease his singing, 

Still he did not leave his laugh 
ing, 

Only turned the log a little, 

Only made the fire burn brighter, 

Made the sparks fly up the smoke- 
flue. 191i 

From Kabibonokka’s forehead, . 


From his snow - besprinkled 
tresses, 

Drops of sweat fell fast and 
heavy, 


Making dints upon the ashes, 

As along the eaves of lodges, 

As from drooping boughs of hem. 
lock, 

Drips the melting snow in springs 
time, 

Making hollows in the snow.-drifts. 

Till at last he rose defeated, 

Could not bear the heat and laugh- 
ter, 201 

Could not bear the merry singing, 

But rushed headlong through the 
door-way, 

Stamped upon the crusted snow- 
drifts, 

Stamped upon the lakes and riv. 
ers, 

Made the snow upon them harder, 

Made the ice upon them thicker, 

Challenged Shingebis, the diver, 

To come forth and wrestle with 
him, 

To come forth and wrestle naked 

On the frozen fens and moor. 
lands. 21! 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


~~ 


Forth went Shingebis, the diver, 
Wrestled all night with the North- 
Wind, 
Wrestled naked on the moorlands 
With the fierce Kabibonokka, 
Till his panting breath grew 
fainter, 
Till his frozen grasp grew feebler, 
Till he reeled and staggered back- 
ward, 
And retreated, baffled, beaten, 
To the kingdom of Wabasso, 220 
To the land of the White Rabbit, 
Hearing still the gusty laughter, 
Hearing Shingebis, the diver, 
Singing, ‘O Kabibonokka, 
You are but my fellow-mortal!’ 
Shawondasee, fat and lazy, 
Had his dwelling far to south- 
ward, . 
In the drowsy, dreamy sunshine, 
In the never-ending Summer. 
He it was who sent the wood- 
birds, 230 
Sent the robin, the Opechee, 
Sent the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
Sent the Shawshaw, sent the swal- 
low, 
Sent the wild-goose, Wawa, north- 
ward, 
Sent the melons and tobacco, 
And the grapes in purple clusters. 
From his pipe the smoke ascend- 
ing 
Filled the sky with haze and va- 
por, 
Filled the air with dreamy soft- 
ness, 
Gave a twinkle to the water, 240 
Touched the rugged hills with 
smoothness, 
Brought the ‘tender Indian Sum- 
mer 
To the melancholy north-land, 
In the dreary Moon of Snow- 
shoes. 
Listless, careless Shawondasee ! 
In his life he had one shadow, 
In his heart one sorrow had he. 
Once, as he was gazing northward, 
War away upon a prairie 


TAS 





He beheld a maiden standing, 250 
Saw a tall and slender maiden 
All alone upon a prairie ; 
Brightest green were all her gar. 
ments, 
And her hair was like the sun: 
shine. 
Day by day he gazed upon her, 
Day by day he sighed with pas. 
sion, 
Day by day his heart within him 
Grew more hot with love and long: 
ing 
For the maid with yellow tresses. 
But he was too fat and lazy 260 
To bestir himself and woo her. 
Yes, too indolent and easy 
To pursue her and persuade her; 
So he only gazed upon her, 
Only sat and sighed with passion 
For the maiden of the prairie. 
Till one morning, looking north. 
ward, 
He beheld her yellow tresses 
Changed and covered o’er with 
whiteness, 
Covered as with whitest _snow- 
flakes, 270 
‘Ah! my brother from the North- 
land, 
From the kingdom of Wabasso, 
From the land of the White RNab- 
bit! 
You have stolen the maiden from 
me, 
You have laid your hand upon her, 
You have wooed and won my 
maiden, 
With your stories of the North- 
land !? 
Thus the wretched Shawonda- 
see 
Breathed into the air his sorrow ; 
And the South- Wind o’er the 
prairie 286 
Wandered warm with sighs of pas: 
sion, 
With the sighs of Shawondasee, 
Till the air seemed full of snow: 
’ flakes, 
Full of thistle-dowr the prairie, 


146 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


ee | 


And the maid with hair like sun- 
shine 
Vanished from his sight forever ; 
Nevermore did Shawondasee 
See the maid with yellow tresses! 
Poor, deluded Shawondasee ! 
*T was no woman that you gazed 


at, 290 
‘T was no maiden that you sighed 
for, 


°T was the prairie dandelion 

Thai through all the dreamy Sum- 
mer 

You had gazed at with such long- 
ing, 

You had sighed for with such pas- 
sion, 

And had puffed away forever, 

Blown into the air with sighing. 

Ah! deluded Shawondasee! 

Thus the Four Winds were di- 

vided ; 299 

Thus the sons of Mudjekeewis 

Had their stations in the heayens, 

At the corner of the heavens ; 

For himself the West-Wind only 

Kept the mighty Mudjekeewis. 


III 
HIAWATHA’S CHILDHOOD 


DOWNWARD through the evening 
twilight, 

In the days that are forgotten, 

In the unremembered ages, 

From the full moon fell Nokomis, 

Fell the beautiful Nokomis, 

She a wife, but not a mother. 

She was sporting with her wo- 

men, 

Swinging in aswing of grape-vines, 

When her rival the rejected, 

Full of jealousy and hatred, 10 

Cut the leafy swing asunder, 

Cut in twain the twisted grape- 
vines, 

And Nokomis fell affrighted 

Downward through the evening 
twilight, 


On the Muskoday, the meadow, 
On the prairie full of blossoms. 
‘See! a star falls!’ said the pea 
ple; 
‘From the sky a star is falling!’ 
There among the ferns and 
mosses, 
There among the prairie lilies, 
On the Muskoday, the meadow, 
In the moonlight and the star. 
light, 
Fair Nokomis bore a daughter. 
And she called her name Wes, 
nonah, 
As the first-born of her daughters. 
And the daughter of Nokomis 
Grew up like the prairie lilies, 
Grew a tall and slender maiden, 
With the beauty of the moonlight, 
With the beauty of the star- 
light. 30 
And Nokomis warned her often, 
Saying oft, and oft repeating, 
‘Oh, beware of Mudjekeewis, 
Of the West-Wind, Mudjekeewis:« 
Listen not to what he tells you; 
Lie not down upon the meadow, 
Stoop not down among the lilies, 
Lest the West-Wind come and harm 
you!’ 
But she heeded not the warning, 
Heeded not those words of wis- 


20 


dom, 40 
And the West-Wind came at even. 
ing, 


Walking lightly o’er the prairie, 

Whispering to the leaves and blos- 
soms, 

Bending low the flowers ané 
grasses, 

Founa the beautiful Wenonah, 

Lying there among the lilies, 

Wooed her with his words of 
sweetness, 

Wooed her with his soft caresses, 

Till she bore a son in sorrow, 

Bore a son of love and sorrow. s5¢ 

Thus was born my Hiawatha, 

Thus was born the child of wor 
der; 

But the daughter of Nokomis, 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





Hiawatha’s gentle mother, 

Tn her anguish died deserted 

By the West- Wind, false and faith- 
less, 

By the heartless Mudjekeewis. 

For her daughter long and loudly 
Wailed and wept the sad Nokomis; 
*Oh that I were dead!’ she mur- 

ured, 60 
* Oh that I were dead, as thou art! 
No more work, and no more weep- 
ing, 
Wahonowin! Wahonowin!’ 

By the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
By the shining Big-Sea-Water, 
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, 
Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. 
Dark behind it rose the forest, 
Rose the black and gloomy pine- 


trees, 
Rose the firs with cones upon 
them ; 70 


Bright before it beat the water, 

Beat the clear and sunny water, 

Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water. 

There the wrinkled old Nokomis 

Nursed the little Hiawatha, 

Rocked him in his linden cradle, 

Bedded soft in moss and rushes, 

Safely bound with reindeer sinews ; 

Stilled his fretful wail by saying, 

‘Hush! the Naked Bear will hear 
thee!’ 80 

Lulled him into slumber, singing, 

‘Ewa-yea! my little owlet! 

Who is this, that lights the wig- 
wam? 

With his great eyes lights the wig- 
wam ? 

Ewa-yea! my little owlet!’ 

Many things Nokomis taught 

him 

Of the stars that shine in heaven ; 

Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, 

Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses ; 

Showed the Death-Dance of the 
Spirits, 90 

Warriors with their plumes and 
war-clubs, 

Flaring far away to northward 

_ th the frosty nights of Winter; 








147 

Showed the broad white road in 
heaven, 

Pathway of the ghosts, the shad- 
ows, 

Running straight across the hea- 
vens, 

Crowded with the ghosts, the shad- 
OWS. 


At the door on summer evenings 
Sat the little Hiawatha: 
Heard the whispering of the pine- 
trees, 100 
Heard the lapping of the waters, 
Sounds of music, words of wonder; 
‘Minne-wawa!’ said the pine-trees, 
*‘ Mudway-aushka !’ said the water. 
Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, 
Flitting through the dusk of even 
ing, 
With the twinkle of its candle 
Lighting up the brakes and bushes, 
And he sang the song of children, 
Sang the song Nokomis taught 
him: : 110 
*Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, 
Little, flitting, white-fire insect, 
Little, dancing, white-fire creature, 
Light me with your little candle, 
Ere upon my bed I lay me, 
Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!’ 
Saw the moon rise from the 
water 
Rippling, rounding from the water, 
Saw the flecks and shadows on it, 
Whispered, * What is that, No- 
komis ?’ 120 
And the good Nokomis answered: 
‘Once a warrior, very angry, 
Seized his grandmother, and threw 
her 
Up into the sky at midnight ; 
Right against the moon he threw 
her; 
’T is her body that you see there.’ 
Saw the rainbow in the heaven, 
In the eastern sky, the rainbow, 
Whispered, *‘ What is that, Noko. 
mis?’ 
And the good Nokomis answered, 
“°Tis the heaven of flowers you 
see there; 13) 


148 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





All the wild-flowers of the forest, 
All the lilies of the prairie, 
When on earth they fade and 


perish, 
Blossom in that heaven above 
us.’ 
When he heard the owls at mid- 
night, 


Hooting, laughing in the forest, 
‘What is that?’ he cried in ter- 


ror, 
‘What is that,’ he said, ‘ Noko- 
mis ?? 139 


And the good Nokomis answered : 
‘That is but the owl and owlet, 
Talking in their native language, 
Talking, scolding at each other.’ 
Then the little Hiawatha 
Learned of every bird its language, 
Learned their names and all their 
secrets, 
How they built their nests in Sum- 
mer, 
Where they hid themselves in 
Winter, 
Talked with them whene’er he 
metthem, _ 
Called them ‘ Hiawatha’s Chick- 
ens.’ 150 
Of all beasts he learned the lan- 
guage, 
Learned their names and all their 
secrets, 
How the beavers built their lodges, 
Where the squirrels hid their 
acorns, 
How the reindeer ran so swiftly, 
Why the rabbit was so timid, 
Talked with them whene’er he met 
them, 
Called them 
thers.’ 
Then Iagoo, the great boaster, 
He the marvellous story-teller, 160 
He the traveller and the talker, 
He the friend of old Nokomis, 
Made a bow for Hiawatha, 
From a branch of ash he made it, 
From an oak-bough made the ar- 
rows, 


‘Hiawatha’s Bro- 


Tipped with flint, and winged with 
feathers, 
And the cord he made of deer- 
skin. 
Then he said to Hiawatha: 
‘Go, my son, into the forest, 


herd to- 


170 


Wiheremthemereds deer 
gether, 
Kill for us a famous roebuck, 
Kill for us a deer with antlers!’ 
Forth into the forest straight- 
way 
All alone walked Hiawatha 
Proudly, with his bow and _ ar- 
rows; 
And the birds sang round him, o’er 
him, 
‘Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!’ 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
‘Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!’ 180 
Up the oak-tree, close beside 
him, 
Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
In and out among the branches, 
Coughed and chattered from the 
oak-tree, 
Laughed, and said between his 
laughing, 
‘Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!’ 
And the rabbit from his path- 
way 
Leaped aside, and at a distance 
Sat erect upon his haunches, 
Half in fear and half in frolie, 
Saying to the little hunter, 
‘Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!’ 
But he heeded not, nor heard 
them, 
For his thoughts were with the 
red deer; 
On their tracks his eyes were faz- 
tened, 
Leading downward to the river, 
To the ford across the river, 
And as one in slumber walked 
he. 
Hidden in the alder-bushes, 
There he waited till the deer came, 
Till he saw two antlers lifted, 201 


190 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


149 





Saw two eyes look from the 
thicket, 

Saw two nostrils point to wind- 
ward, 

And a deer came down the path- 
way, 
Flecked with 

shadow. 
And his heart within him fluttered, 
Trembled like the leaves above 
him, 
Like the birch-leaf palpitated, 
As the deer came down the path- 
way. 
Then, upon one knee uprising, 210 
Hiawatha aimed an arrow; 
Scarce a twig moved with his mo- 
tion, 

Searce a leaf was stirred or rus- 
tled, 

But the wary roebuck started, 

Stamped with all his hoofs to- 
gether, 

Listened with one foot uplifted, 

Leaped as if to meet the arrow; 

Ah! the singing, fatal arrow, 

Like a wasp it buzzed and stung 
him! 

Dead he lay there in the for- 

est, 

By the ford across the river; 

Beat his timid heart no longer, 

But the heart of Hiawatha 

Throbbed and shouted and ex- 
ulted, 

As he bore the red deer home- 
ward, 

And Tagoo and Nokomis 

Hailed his coming with applauses. 

From the red deer’s hide No- 

komis 

Made a cloak for Hiawatha, 

From the red deer’s flesh Noko- 
mis 230 

Made a banquet to his honor. 

All the village came and feasted, 

All the guests praised Hiawatha, 

Called him Strong-Heart, Soan-ge- 
taha ! 

Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-go- 
taysee! 


leafy light and 


22f 


IV 
HIAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS 


Out of childhood into manhood 
Now had grown my Hiawatha, 
Skilled in all the craft of hunters, 
Learned in all the lore of old men, 
In all youthful sports and pas- 
times, 
In all manly arts and labors. 
Swift of foot was Hiawatha: 
He could shoot an arrow from 
him, 
And run forward with such fleet- 
ness, 
That the arrow fell behind him! ro 
Strong of arm was Hiawatha ; 
He could shoot ten arrows up- 
ward, 
Shoot them with such strength and 
swiftness, 
That the tenth had left the bow- 
string 
Ere the first to earth had fallen! 
He had mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Magic mittens made of deer-skin; 
When upon his hands he wore 
them, 
He could smite the rocks asunder, 
He could grind them into powder. 
He had moceasins enchanted, 21 
Magic moccasins of deer-skin ; 
When he bound them round his 
ankles, 
When upon his feet he tied them, 
At each stride a mile he measured! 
Much he questioned old Nokomis 
Of his father Mudjekeewis ; 
Learned from her the fatal secret 
Of the beauty of his mother, 
Of the falsehood of his father; 30 
And his heart was hot within hin, 
Like a living coal his heart was. 
Then he said to old Nokomis, 
‘T will goto Mudjekeewis, 
See how fares it with my father, 
At the doorways of the West-. 
Wind, 
At the portals of the Sunset !? 
From his lodge went Hiawatha, 


150 





armed for 


Dressed for travel, 
hunting; 
Dressed in deer-skin shirt and leg- 


gings, 40 
Richly wrought with quills an 
wampum ; 


On his head his eagle-feathers, 
Round his waist his belt of wam- 
pum, 
In his hand his bow of ash-wood, 
Strung with sinews of the rein- 
deer ; 
In his quiver oaken arrows, 
Tipped with jasper, winged with 
feathers ; 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
With his moccasins enchanted. 
Warning said the old Nokomis, 
‘Go not forth, O Hiawatha! 51 
To the kingdom of the West- Wind, 
To the realms of Mudjekeewis, 
Lest he harm you with his magic, 
Lest he kill you with his cunning!’ 
But the fearless Hiawatha 
Heeded not her woman’s warning; 
Forth he strode into the forest, 
At each stride a mile he measured ; 
Lurid seemed the sky above him, 
Lurid seemed the earth beneath 
him, 61 
Hot and close the air around him, 
Filled with smoke and fiery vapors, 
As of burning woods and prairies, 
For his heart was hot within him, 
Like a living coal his heart was. 
So he journeyed westward, west- 
ward, 
Left the fleetest deer behind him, 
Left the antelope and bison ; 
Crossed the rushing Esconaba, 70 
Crossed the mighty Mississippi, 
Passed the Mountains of the 
Prairie, 
Passed the land of Crows and 
Foxes, 
Passed the dwellings of the Black- 
feet, 
Came unto the Rocky Mountains, 
To the kingdom of. the West- 
Wind, 
Where upon the gusty summits 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





Sat the ancient Mudjekeewis, 
Ruler of the winds of heaven. 

Filled with awe was Hiawatha 
At the aspect of his father. 8x 
On the air about him wildly 
Tossed and streamed his cloudy 

tresses, 
Gleamed like drifting snow his 
tresses, 
Glared like Ishkoodah, the comet, 
Like the star with fiery tresses. 

Filled with joy was Mudjekeewis 
When he looked on Hiawatha, 
Saw his youth rise up before him 
In the face of Hiawatha, 90 
Saw the beauty of Wenonah 
From the grave rise up before 

him. 

‘Welcome!’ said he,‘ Hiawatha, 
To the kingdom of the West- Wind} 
Long have I been waiting for you! 
Youth is lovely, age is lonely, 
Youth is fiery, age is frosty ; 

You bring back the days departed, 

You bring back my youth of pas- 
sion, 

And the beautiful Wenonah!’ 100 

Many days they talked together, 
Questioned, listened, waited, an- 

swered; 
Much the mighty Mudjekeewis 
Boasted of his ancient prowess, 
Of his perilous adventures, 
His indomitable courage, 
His invulnerable body. 

Patiently sat Hiawatha, 
Listening to his father’s boasting ; 
With a smile he sat and listened, 
Uttered neither threat nor mei- 


ace, Be 
Neither word nor look betrayed 
him, 


But his heart was hot within him, 
Like a living coal his heart was. 
Then he said, ‘O Mudjekeewis, 
Is there nothing that can harm 
you? 
Nothing that you are afraid of?’ 
And the mighty Mudjekeewis, 
Grand and gracious in his boast 
ing, 
1 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


151 





Answered, saying, * There is no- 
thing, 120 

Nothing but the black rock yon- 
der, 


Nothing but the fatal Wawheek !’ 
And he looked at Hiawatha 
With a wise look and benignant, 
With a countenance paternal, 
Looked with pride upon the beauty 
Of his tall and graceful figure, 
Saying, ‘O my Hiawatha! 
Is there anything can harm you? 
Anything you are afraid of?’ 130 
But the wary Hiawatha 
Paused awhile, as if uncertain, 
Held his peace, as if resolving, 
And then answered, ‘ There is no- 
thing, 
Nothing but the bulrush yonder, 
Nothing but the great Apukwa!’ 
And as Mudjekeewis, rising, 
Stretched his hand to pluck the 
bulrush, 
Hiawatha cried in terror, 
Cried in well-dissembled terror, 140 
*Kago! kago! do not touch it!’ 
* Ah, kaween!’ said Mudjekeewis, 
‘No indeed, I will not touch it!’ 
Then they talked of other mat- 
ters ; 
First of Hiawatha’s brothers, 
First of Wabun, of the East-Wind, 
Of the South-Wind, Shawondasee, 
Of the North, Kabibonokka; 
Then of Hiawatha’s mother, 
Of the beautiful Wenonah, 
Of her birth upon the meadow, 
Of her death, as old Nokomis 
Had remembered and related. 
And he cried, *O Mudjekeewis, 
It was you who killed Wenonah, 
Took her young life and her 
beauty, 
Broke the Lily of the Prairie, 
Trampled it beneath your foot- 
steps ; 
You confess it! you confess it!’ 
And the mighty Mudjekeewis 160 
Tossed upon the wind his tresses, 
Bowed his hoary head in anguish, 
With a silent nod assented. 


150 


Then up started Hiawatha, 
And with threatening look and 
gesture 
Laid his hand upon the black rock, 
On the fatal Wawbeek laid it, 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Rent the jutting crag asunder, 
Smote and crushed it into frag- 
ments, 170 
Hurled them madly at his father, 
The remorseful Mudjekeewis, 
For his heart was hot within him, 
Like a living coal his heart was. 
But the ruler of the West-Wind 
Blew the fragments backward 
from him, 
With the breathing of his nostrils, 
With the tempest of his anger, 178 
Blew them back at his assailant ; 
Seized the bulrush, the Apukwa, 
Dragged it with its roots and fibres 
From the margin of the meadow. 
From its ooze the giant bulrush ; 
Long and loud laughed Hiawatha: 
Then began the deadly conflict, 
Hand to hand among the moun- 
tains ; 
From his eyry screamed the eagle, 
The Keneu, the great war-eagle, 
Sat upon the crags around them, 
Wheeling flapped his wings above 
them. 190 
Like a tall tree in the tempest 
Bent and lashed the giant bulrush; 
And in masses huge and heavy 
Crashing fell the fatal Wawbeek ; 
Till the earth shook with the tu- 
mult 
And confusion of the battle, 
And the air was full of shout- 
ings, 

And the thunder of the mountains, 
Starting, answered, ‘ Baim-wawa!? 
Back retreated Mudjekeewis, 
Rushing westward o’er the moun- 

tains, 


201 

Stumbling westward down the 
mountains, 

Three whole days retreated fight 


ing, 
Still pursued by Hiawatha 


152 


To the doorways of the West- 
Wind, 
To the portals of the Sunset, 
To the earth’s remotest border, 
Where into the empty spaces 
Sinks the sun, as a flamingo 
Drops into her nest at nightfall 
In the melancholy marshes. = 211 
‘Hold!’ at length cried Mudje- 
keewis, 
‘Hold, my son, my Hiawatha! 
*T is impossible to kill me, 
For you eannot kill the immortal. 
I have put you to this trial, 
But to know and prove your cour- 
age; 
Now receive the prize of valor! 
‘Go back to your home and peo- 
ple, 
Live among them, toil among them, 
Cleanse the earth from all that 
harms it, 221 
Clear the fishing- grounds and 
rivers, 
Slay all monsters and magicians, 
All the Wendigoes, the giants, 
All the serpents, the Kenabeeks, 
As I slew the Mishe-Mokwa, 
Slew the Great Bear of the moun- 
tains. 
‘And at last when Death draws 
near you, 228 
When the awful eyes of Pauguk 
Glare upon you in the darkness, 
I will share my kingdom with you, 
Ruler shall you be thenceforward 
Of the Northwest-Wind, Keeway- 
din, 
Of the home-wind, the Keewaydin.’ 
Thus was fought that famous 
battle 
In the dreadful days of Shah-shah, 
In the days long since departed, 
In the kingdom of the West-Wind. 
Still the hunter sees its traces 239 
Scattered far o’er hill and valley; 
Sees the giant bulrush growing 
By the ponds and water-courses, 
Sees the masses of the Wawbeek 
Lying still in every valley. 
Homeward now went Hiawatha ; 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





Pleasant was the landscape round 
him, 

Pleasant was the air above him, 

For the bitterness of anger 

Had departed wholly from him, 

From his brain the thought of ven- 
geance, 250 

From his heart the burning fever. 

Only once his pace he slackened, 

Only once he paused or halted, 

Paused to purchase heads of ar- 
rows 

Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 

In the land of the Dacotahs, 

Where the Falls of Minnehaha 

Flash and gleam among the oak- 
TEES: 

Laugh and leap into the valley. 

There the ancient Arrow-maker 

Made his arrow-heads of sand- 
stone, 261 

Arrow-heads of chalcedony, 

Arrow-heads of flint and jasper, 

Smoothed and sharpened at the 


edges, 
Hard and polished, keen and 
costly. 
With him dwelt his dark-eyed 
daughter, 


Wayward as the Minnehaha, 
With her moods of shade and sun- 
shine, 
Eyes that smiled and frowned al- 
ternate, 
Feet as rapid as the river, 
Tresses flowing like the water, 
And as musical a laughter: 
And he named her from the river, 
From the water-fall he named her, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water. 
Was it then for heads of arrows, 
Arrow-heads of chalzedony, 
Arrow-heads of fint and jasper, 
That my Hiawatha halted 
In the land of the Dacotahs ? 
Was it not to see the maiden, 
See the face of Laughing Water 
Peeping from behind the curtain, 
Hear the rustling of her garments 
From behind the waving curtain, 
As one sees the Minnehaha 


270 


280 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





Gleaming, glancing through the 
branches, 

As one hears the Laughing Water 

From behindits screen of branches? 

Who shall say what thoughts 

and visions 290 

Fill the fiery brains of young men? 

Who shall say what dreams of 
beauty 

Filled the heart of Hiawatha ? 

All he told to old Nokomis, 

When he reached the lodge at sun- 
set, 

Was the meeting with his father, 

Was his fight with Mudjekeewis ; 

Not a word he said of arrows, 

Not a word of Laughing Water. 


Vv 
HIAWATHA’S FASTING 


You shall hear how Hiawatha 

Prayed and fasted in the forest, 

Not for greater skill in hunting, 

Not for greater craft in fishing, 

Not for triumphs in the battle, 

And renown among the warriors, 

But for profit of the people, 

For advantage of the nations. 

First he built a lodge for fasting, 

Built a wigwam in the forest, 10 

By the shining Big-Sea-Water, 

In the blithe and pleasant Spring- 
time, 

In the Moon of Leaves he built it, 

And, with dreams and visions 
many, 

Seven whole days and nights he 
fasted. 

On the first day of his fasting 

Through the leafy woods he wan- 
dered ; 

Saw the deer start from the thicket, 

Saw the rabbit in his burrow, 

Heard the pheasant, Bena, drum- 
ming, 20 

Heard the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 

Rattling in his hoard of acorns, 

Saw the pigeon, the Omeme, 


153 

Building nests among the pine- 
trees; 

And in flocks the wild - goose, 
Wawa, 


Flying to the fen-lands northward, 

Whirring, wailing far above him. 

*Master of Life!’ he cried, de- 
sponding, 

‘Must our lives depend on these 
things?’ 

On the next day of his fasting 30 
By the river’s brink he wandered, 
Through the Muskoday, the 

meadow, 
Saw the wild rice, Mahnomonee, 
Saw the blueberry, Meenahga, 
And the strawberry, Odahmin, 
And the gooseberry, Shahbomin, 
And the grape-vine, the Bemah- 
gut, 
Trailing o’er the alder-branches, 
Filling all the air with fragrance! 
‘Master of Life!’ he cried, de- 


sponding, 40 
‘Must our lives depend on these 
things ?? 


On the third day of his fasting 
By the lake he sat and pondered, 
By the still, transparent water; 
Saw the sturgeon, Nahma, leap- 
ing, 

Scattering drops like beads of 
wampum, 

Saw the yellow perch, the Sahwa, 

Like a sunbeam in the water, 

Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, 

And the herring, Okahahwis, 50 

And the Shawgashee, the craw- 
fish! 

‘Master of Life!’ he cried, de- 
sponding, 

‘Must our lives depend on these 
things ?? 

On the fourth day of his fasting 
Tn his lodge he lay exhausted; 
From his couch of leaves and 

branches 
Gazing with half-open eyelids, 
Full of shadowy dreams and vis- 
ions, 
On the dizzy, swimming landscape, 


154 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


On the gleaming of the water, 60 
On the splendor of the sunset. 
And he saw a youth approach- 

ing, 

Dressed in garments green and 
yellow, 

Coming through the purple twi- 
light, 

Through the splendor of the sun- 
set; : 
Plumes of green bent o’er his fore- 

head, 
And his hair was soft and golden. 
Standing at the open doorway, 
Long he looked at Hiawatha, 
Looked with pity and compas- 
sion 70 

On his wasted form and features, 

And, in accents like the sighing 

Of the South-Wind in the tree-tops, 

Said he, ‘O my Hiawatha ! 

All your prayers are heard in hea- 
ven, 

For you pray not like the others ; 

Not for greater skill in hunting, 

Not for greater craft in fishing, 

Not for triumph in the battle, 79 

Nor renown among the warriors, 

But for profit of the people, 

For advantage of the nations. 

‘From the Master of Life de- 

scending, 

I, the friend of man, Mondamin, 

Come to warn you and instruct 
you, 

How by struggle and by labor 

You shall gain what you have 
prayed for. 

Rise up from your bed of branches, 

Rise, O youth, and wrestle with 
me!’ 

Faint with famine, Hiawatha 9o 
Started from his bed of branches. 
From the twilight of his wigwam 
Forth into the flush of sunset 
Came, and wrestled with Mon- 

damin ; 
At his touch he felt new courage 
Throbbing in his brain and bosom, 
Felt new life and hope and vigor 
Run through every nerve and fibre. 





w 


So they wrestled there together 
In the glory of the sunset, 10a 
And the more they strove and 

struggled, 
Stronger still grew Hiawatha; 
Till the darkness fell around them, 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From her nest among the pine- 
trees, 
Gave a cry of lamentation, 
Gave a scream of pain and fam- 
ine. 
‘*Tis enough!’ then said Mon- 
damin, ° 
Smiling upon Hiawatha, 
‘But to-morrow, when the sun 
sets, 110 
I will come again to try you.’ 
And he vanished, and was seen 
not; 
Whether sinking as the rain sinks, 
Whether rising as the mists rise, 
Hiawatha saw not, knew not, 
Only saw that he had vanished, 
Leaving him alone and fainting, 
With the misty lake below him, 
And the reeling stars above him. 
On the morrow and the next 


day, 120 
When the sun through heaven de- 
seending, 


Like a red and burning cinder 

From the hearth of the Great 
Spirit, 

Fell into the western waters, 

Came Mondamin for the trial, 

For the strife with Hiawatha ; 

Came as silent as the dew comes, 

From the empty air appearing, 

Into empty air returning, 

Taking shape when 
touches, 

But invisible to all men 

In its coming and its going. 

Thrice they wrestled there to- 

gether 

In the glory of the sunset, 

Till the darkness fell around them, 

Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 

From her nest among the pine 
trees, 


earth it 


130 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





Uttered her loud ery of famine, 
And Mondamin paused to listen. 
Tall and beautiful he stood 
there, 140 
In his garments green and yellow ; 
To and fro his plumes above bim 
Waved and nodded with his breath- 
ing, 
And the sweat of the encounter 
Stood like drops of dew upon him. 
And he cried, ‘O Hiawatha! 
Bravely have you wrestled with 


me, 
Thrice have wrestled stoutly with 
me, 
And the Master of Life, who sees 
us, 
He will give to you the tri- 
umph !’ 150 
Then he smiled, and said: * To- 
morrow 


Is the last day of your conflict, 

Ts the last day of your fasting. 

You will conquer and o’ercome 
me; 

Make a bed for me to lie in, 

Where the rain may fall upon me, 

Where the sun may come and 


warm me; 

Strip these garments, green and 
yellow, 

Strip this nodding plumage from 
me, 

Lay me in the earth, and make 
it 160 


Soft and loose and light above me. 

‘Let no hand disturb my slum- 

ber, . 
Let no weed nor worm molest me, 
Let not Kahgahgee, the raven, 
Come to haunt me and molest me, 
Only come yourself to watch me, 
Till I wake, and start, and quicken, 
Till I leap into the sunshine.’ 

And thus saying, he departed ; 
Peacefully slept Hiawatha, 170 
But he heard the Wawonaissa, 
Heard the whippoorwill complain- 

Ing, 
Perched upon his jonely wigwam ; 
Heard the rushing Sebowisha, 


155 


Heard the rivulet rippling near 
him, 

Talking to the darksome forest; 

Heard the sighing of the branches, 

As they lifted and subsided 

At the passing of the night-wind, 

Heard them, as one hears in slum- 


ber 180 
Far-off murmurs, dreamy whis- 
pers: 


Peacefully slept Hiawatha. 

On the morrow came Nokomis, 
On the seventh day of his fasting, 
Came with food for Hiawatha, 
Came imploring and bewailing, 
Lest his hunger should o’ercome 

him, 
Lest his fasting should be fatal. 

But he tasted not, and touched 

not, 

Only said to her, ‘ Nokomis, 

Wait until the sun is setting, 

Till the darkness falls around us, 

Till the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 

Crying from the desolate marshes, 

Tells us that the day is ended.’ 

Homeward weeping:went Noko- 

mis, 

Sorrowing for her Hiawatha, 

Fearing lest his strength should 
fail him, 

Lest his fasting should be fatal. 

He meanwhile sat weary wait- 
ing 200 

For the coming of Mondamin, 

Till the shadows, pointing east- 
ward, 

Lengthened over field and forest, 

Till the sun dropped from the hea- 
ven, 

Floating on the waters westward, 

As ared leaf in the Autumn 

Falls and floats upon the water, 

Falls and sinks into its bosom. 

And behold! the young Mon- 


190 


damin, ‘i 
With his soft and_ shining 
tresses, 210 
With his garments green and yel- 
low, 


With his long and glossy plumage, 


156 





Stood and beckoned at the door- 
way. 
And as‘one in slumber walking, 
Pale and haggard, but undaunted, 
From the wigwam Hiawatha 
Came and wrestled with Monda- 
min. 
Round about him spun the land- 
scape, 
Sky and forest reeled together, 
And his strong heart leaped with. 
in him, 220 
As the sturgeon leapsand struggles 
In a net to break its meshes. 
Like a ring of fire around him 
Blazed and flared the red horizon, 
And a hundred suns seemed look- 
ing 
At the combat of the wrestlers. 
Suddenly upon the greensward 
All alone stood Hiawatha, 
Panting with his wild exertion, 
Palpitating with the struggle ; 230 
And before him breathless, lifeless, 
Lay the youth, with hair dishev- 
elled, 
Plumage torn,and garments tat- 
tered, i 
Dead he lay there in the sunset. 
And victorious Hiawatha 
Made the grave as he commanded, 
Stripped the garments from Mon- 
damin, 
Stripped his tattered plumage from 
him, 
Laid him in the earth, and made it 
Soft and loose and light above 
him ; 240 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
From the melancholy moorlands, 
Gave a cry of lamentation, 
Gave acry of pain and anguish ! 
Homeward then went Hiawatha 
To the lodge of old Nokomis, 
And the seven days of his fasting 
Were accomplished and complet- 
ed. 
But the place was not forgotten 
Where he wrestled with Monda- 
min; 250 
Nor forgotten nor neglected 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





Was the grave where lay Monda 
min, 

Sleeping in the rain and sunshine, 

Where his scattered plumes and ° 
garments 

Faded in the rain and sunshine. 

Day by day did Hiawatha 

Go to wait and watch beside it; 

Kept the dark mould soft above it, 

Kept it clean from weeds and in- 


sects, 
Drove away, with scoffs and shout. 
ings, 260 


Kahgahgee, the king of ravens. 

Till at length a small green 

feather 
From the earth shot slowly up- 
ward, 
Then another and another, 
And before the Summer ended 
Stood the maize in all its beauty, 
With its shining robes about it, 
And its long, soft, yellow tresses ; 
Andin rapture Hiawatha 
Cried aloud, ‘ It is Mondamin ! 270 
Yes, the friend of man, Monda- 
min!’ 

Then he called to old Nokomis 
And Iagoo, the great boaster, 
Showed them where the maize 

was growing, 
Told them of his wondrous vision, 
Of his wrestling and his triumph, 
Of this new gift to the nations, 
Which should be their food for- 
ever. 
And still later, when the Au- 
tumn ° 
Changed the long. green leaves to 
yellow, 280 
And the soft and juicy kernels 
Grew like wampum hard and yel- 
low, 
Then the ripened ears he gathered, 
Stripped the withered husks from 
off them, 
As he once had stripped the wres- 
tler, 
Gave the first Feast of Mondamin, 
And made known unto the people 
This new gift of the Great Spirit. 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





VI 
HIAWATHA’S FRIENDS 


Two good friends had Hiawatha, 
Singled out from all the others, 
Bound to him in closest union, 
And to whom he gave the right 
hand 
Of his heart, in joy and sorrow; 
Chibiabos, the musician, 
And the very strong man, Kwa- 
sind. 
Straight between them ran the 
pathway, 
Never grew the grass upon it; 
Singing birds, that utter false- 
hoods, 10 
Story-tellers, mischief-makers, 
Found no eager ear to listen, 
Could not breed ill-will between 
them, 
For they kept each other’s coun- 
sel, 
Spake with naked hearts together, 
Pondering much and much con- 
triving 
How the tribes of men might pro- 
sper. 
Most beloved by Hiawatha 
Was the gentle Chibiabos, 
He the best of all musicians, 20 
He the sweetest of all singers. 
Beautiful and childlike was he, 
Brave as man is, soft as woman, 
Pliant as a wand of willow, 
Stately as a deer with antlers. 
When he sang, the village lis- 
tened; 
All the warriors gathered round 
him, 
All the women came to hear him; 
Now he stirred their souls to pas- 
sion, 
Now he melted them to pity. 30 
From the hollow reeds he fash- 
ioned 
Flutes so musical and mellow, 
That the brook, the Sebowisha, 
Ceased to murmur in the wood- 
land, 


157 


That the wood-birds ceased from 
singing, 
And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree, 
And the rabbit, the Wabasso, 
Sat upright to look and listen. 
Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha, 40 
Pausing, said, *O Chibiabos, 
Teach my waves to flow in music, 
Softly as your words in singing!’ 
Yes, the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
Envious, said, *O Chibiabos, 
Teach me tones as wild and way- 
ward, 
Teach me songs as full of frenzy \’ 
Yes, the robin, the Opechee, 
Joyous, said, * O Chibiabos, 
Teach me tones as sweet and ten- 


der, 5c 

Teach me songs as full of glaa- 
ness !’ 

And the whippoorwill, Wawo- 
naissa, 


Sobbing, said, ‘O Chibiabos, 
Teach me tones as melancholy, 
Teach me songs as full of sad- 
ness!’ 
All the many sounds of nature 
Borrowed sweetness from _ his 
Singing ; 
All the hearts of men were soft- 
ened 
By the pathos of his music; 
For he sang of peace and free- 
dom, 60 
Sang of beauty, love, and longing; 
Sang of death, and life undying 
In the Islands of the Blessed, 
In the kingdom of Ponemah, 
In the land of the Hereafter. 
Very dear to Hiawatha 
Was the gentle Chibiabos, 
He the best of all musicians, 
He the sweetest of all singers; 
For his gentleness he loved him, 7a 
And the magic of his singing. 
Dear, too, unto Hiawatha 
Was the very strong man, Kwa 
sind, 
He the strongest of all mortals, 
He the mightiest among many; 


158 





For his very strength he loved 
him, 
For his strength allied to goodness. 
Idle in his youth was Kwasind, 
Very listless, dull, and dreamy, 
Never played with other chil- 
dren, 80 
Never fished and never hunted, 
Not like other children was he; 
But they saw that much he fasted, 
Much his Manito entreated, 


Much besought his Guardian 
Spirit. 

‘Lazy Kwasind!’ said his mo- 
ther, 


‘Tn my work you never help me! 
In the Summer you are roaming 
Tdly in the fields and forests ; 
In the Winter you are cowering 90 
O’er the firebrands inthe wigwam ! 
In the coldest days of Winter 
I must break the ice for fishing; 
With my nets you never help me! 
At the door my nets are hanging, 
Dripping, freezing with the water ; 
Go and wring them, Yenadizze! 
Go and dry them in the sunshine!’ 
Slowly, from the ashes, Kwasind 
Rose, but made no angry an- 


swer,; 100 
From the lodge went forth in 
silence, 


Took the nets, that hung together, 

Dripping, freezing at the doorway ; 

Like a wisp of straw he wrung 
them, 

Like a wisp of straw he broke 
them, 

Could not wring them without 
breaking, 

Such the strength was in his fin- 
gers. 

‘Lazy Kwasind !’ said his father, 
‘In the hunt you never help me; 
Every bow you touch is broken, r1o 
Snapped asunder every arrow; 
Yet come with me to the forest, 
You shall bring the hunting home- 

ward.’ 

Down a narrow pass they wan- 

dered, 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





= = 


Where a brooklet led them on 
ward, 

Where the trail of deer and bison 

Marked the soft mud on the mar. 
gin, 

Till they found all further passage 

Shut against them, barred se. 


curely 
By the trunks of trees up" 
rooted, 120 


Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise, 
And forbidding further passage. 
‘We must go back,’ said the old 
man, 
‘Over these logs we cannot clam. 
ber; . 
Not a woodchuck could 
through them, 
Not a squirrel clumber o’er them! ’ 
And straightway his pipe he 
lighted, 
And sat down to smoke and pon- 
der. 
But before his pipe was finished, 
Lo! the path was cleared before 
him; 130 
All the trunks had Kwasind lifted, 
To the right hand, to the left hand, 
Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows, 
Hurled the cedars light as lances. 
‘Lazy Kwasind!’ said the young 
men, 
As they sported in the meadow: 
‘Why stand idly looking at us, 
Leaning on the rock behind you? 
Come and wrestle with the others, 
Let us pitch the quoit  to- 
gether!’ 140 
Lazy Kwasind made no answer, 
To their challenge made no an- 
swer, 
Only rose, and slowly turning, 
Seized the huge rock in his fingers, 
Tore it from its deep foundation, 
Poised it in the air a moment, 
Pitched it sheer into the river, 
Sheer into the swift Pauwating, 
Where it still is seen in Summer. 
Once as down that foaming 
river, 150 
Down the rapids of Pauwating, 


get 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


159 





Kwasind sailed with his compan. 
ions, 

In the stream he saw a beaver, 

Saw Ahmeek, the King of Bea- 
vers, 

Struggling with the rushing cur- 
rents, 

Rising, sinking in the water. 

Without speaking, without paus- 

Ing, 

Kwasind leaped into the river, 

Plunged beneath the bubbling sur- 
face, 

Through the whirlpools chased 
the beaver, 160 

Followed him among the islands, 

Stayed so long beneath the water, 

That his terrified companions 

Cried, ‘ Alas! good-by to Kwasind! 

We shall never more see Kwa- 
sind !° 

But he reappeared triumphant, 

And upon his shining shoulders 


Brought the beaver, dead and 
dripping, 
Brought the King of all the Bea- 
vers. 
And these two, as I have told 
you, 170 


Were the friends of Hiawatha, 

Chibiabos, the musician, 

And the very strong man, Kwa- 
sind. 

Long they lived in peace together, 

Spake with naked hearts together, 

Pondering much and much con- 


triving 
How the tribes of men might 
prosper. 


vil 
HIAWATHA’S SAILING 


"GIVE me of your bark, O Birch- 
tree ! 

Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree! 

Growing by the rushing river, 

Tall and stately in the valley! 

1a light canoe will build me, 


Build a swift Cheemaun for sail- 
ing, 
That shall float upon the river, 
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, 
Like a yellow water-lily ! 
‘Lay aside your cloak, O Birch- 


tree! 10 
Lay aside your white-skin wrap- 
per, 


For the Summer-time is coming, 
And the sun is warm in heaven, 
And you need no white-skin wrap- 
perl? 

Thus aloud cried Hiawatha, 
In the solitary forest, 
By the rushing Taquamenaw, 
When the birds were singing gayly, 
In the Moon of Leaves were sing- 


ing, 
And the sun, from sleep awak- 
ing, 20 
Started up and said, ‘ Behold me! 
Geezis, the great Sun, behold 
me!’ 
And the tree with all its 
branches 


Rustled in the breeze of morning, 
Saying, with a sigh of patience, 
‘Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!’ 
With his knife the tree he gir- 
dled; 
Just beneath its lowest branches, 
Just above the roots, he cut it, 
Till the sap came oozing out- 
ward ; 30 
Down the trunk, from top to bot- 
tom, 
Sheer he cleft the bark asunder, 
With a wooden wedge he raised it, 
Stripped it from the trunk un- 
broken. 
‘Give me of your boughs, O Ce- 
dar! 
Of your strong and pliant branches, 
My canoe to make more steady, 
Make more strong and firm be- 
neath me!’ 
Through the summit of the Ce- 
dar 
Went a sound, a cry of horror, 49 
Went a murmur of resistance ; 


160 


But it whispered, bending down- 
ward, 
‘Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!’ 
Down he hewed the boughs of 
cedar, 
Shaped them straightway to a 
frame-work, 
Like two bows he formed and 
shaped them, 
Like two bended bows together. 
‘Give me of your roots, O Tama- 


rack! 
Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree ! 
My canoe to bind together, 50 


So to bind the ends together 
That the water may not enter, 
That the river may not wet me!’ 
And the Larch, with all its fibres, 
Shivered in the air of morning, 
Touched his forehead with its tas- 
sels, 
Said, with one long sigh of sorrow, 
*Take them all, O Hiawatha!’ 
From the earth he tore the fibres, 
Tore the tough roots of the Larch- 
tree, 60 
Closely sewed the bark together, 
Bound it closely to the frame-work. 
‘Give me of your balm, O Fir- 
tree! 
Of your balsam and your resin, 
So to close the seams together 
That the water may not enter, 
That the river may not wet me!’ 
And the Fir-tree, tall and som- 


bre, 

Sobbed through all its robes of 
darkness, 

Rattled like a shore with peb- 
bles, 70 

Answered wailing, answered weep- 
ing, 


‘Take my balm, O Hiawatha !’ 
And he took the tears of balsam, 
Took the resin of the Fir-tree, 
Smeared therewith each seam and 
fissure, 
Made each 
water. 
‘Give me of your quills, O Hedge- 
hog! 


erevice safe from 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedge. 
hog! 
I will make a necklace of them, 
Make a girdle for my beauty, 80 
And two stars to deck her bosom! ? 
From a hollow tree the Hedge- 
hog 
With his sleepy eyes looked at 
him, 
Shot his shining quills, like arrows, 
Saying with a drowsy murmur, 
Through the tangle of his whis- 
Kers, 
“Take my quills, O Hiawatha!’ 
From the ground the quills he 
gathered, 
All the little shining arrows, 
Stained them red and blue and 


yellow, 96 
With the juice of roots and ber, 
ries; 


Into his canoe he wrought them, 
Round its waist a shining girdle, 
Round its bows a gleaming neck. 


lace, 
On its breast two stars resplen- 
dent. 
Thus the Birch Canoe was 
builded 


In the valley, by the river, 
In the bosom of the forest ; 
And the forest’s life was in it, 
All its mystery and its magic, 100 
All the lightness of the birch-tree, 
All the toughness of the cedar, 
All the larch’s supple sinews; 
And it floated on the river 
Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, 
Like a yellow water-lily. 

Paddles none had Hiawatha, 
Paddles none he had or needed, 
For his thoughts as paddles served 


him, 
And his wishes served to guide 
him; 110 


Swift or slow at will he glided, 
Veered to right or left at pleasure. 
Then he called aloud to Kwa. 
sind, 
To his friend, the strong man, 
Kwasind, 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





Saying, ‘Help me clear this river 
Of its sunken logs and sand-bars.’ 
Straight into the river Kwasind 
Plunged as if he were an otter, 
Dived as if he were a beaver, 
Stood up to his waist in water, 120 
To his arm-pits in the river, ; 
Swam and shouted in the river, 
Tugged at sunken logs and 
branches, 
With his hands he scooped tke 
sand-bars, 
With his feet the ooze and tangle. 
And thus sailed my Hiawatha 
Down the rushing Taquamenaw, 
Sailed through all its bends and 


windings, 

Sailed through all its deeps and 
shallows, 

While his friend, the strong man, 
Kwasind, 130 

Swam the deeps, the shallows 
waded. 

Up and down the river went 

they, 


In and out among its islands, 

Cleared its bed of root and sand- 
bar, 

Dragged the dead trees from its 
channel, 

Made its passage safe and certain, 

Made a pathway for the people, 

From its springs among the moun- 
tains, 

To the waters of Pauwating, 


To the bay of Taquamenaw. 40 


VIII 
HIAWATHA’S FISHING 


FORTH upon the Gitche Gumee, 

On the shining Big-Sea-Water, 

With his fishing-line of cedar, 

Of the twisted bark of cedar, 

Forth to catch the sturgeon Nah- 
ma, 

Mishe-Nahma, King of Fishes, 

In his birch canoe exulting 

All alone went Hiawatha. 


161 





Through the clear, transparent 


water 
He could see the fishes swim- 
ming 10 


Far down in the depths below him; 

See the yellow perch, the Sahwa, 

Like a sunbeam in the water, 

See the Shawgashee, the craw-fish, 

Like a spider on the bottom, 

On the white and sandy bottom. 
At the stern sat Hiawatha, 

With his fishing-line of cedar ; 

In his plumes the breeze of morn- 


ing 
Played as in the hemlock 
branches ; 20 


On the bows, with tail erected, 
Sat the squirrel, Adjidaumo; 
In his fur the breeze of morning 
Played as in the prairie grasses. 
On the white sand of the bottom 
Lay the monster Mishe-Nahma, ~ 
Lay the sturgeon, King of Fishes; 
Through his gills he breathed the 


water, 

With his fins he fanned and win. 
nowed, 

With his tail he swept the sand- 
floor. 30 


There he lay in all his armor; 
On each side a shield to guard 
him, 
Plates of bone upon his forehead, 
Down his sides and back and 


shoulders 

Plates of bone with spines project- 
ing! 

Painted was he with his war- 
paints, 


Stripes of yellow, red, and azure, 

Spots of brown and spots of sable; 

And he lay there on the bottom, 

Fanning with his fins of purple, 40 

As above him Hiawatha 

In his birch canoe came sailing, 

With his fishing-line of cedar. 

‘Take my bait,’ cried Hiawatha, 

Down into. the depths beneath 
him, 

‘Take my bait, O Sturgeon, Nahe 
ma! 


162 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





Come up from below the water, 
Let us see which is the stronger!’ 
And he dropped his line of cedar 
Through the clear, transparent 
water, 50 
Waited vainly for an answer, 
Long sat waiting for an answer, 
And repeating loud and louder, 
‘Take my bait, O King of Fishes!’ 

Quiet lay the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Fanning slowly in the water, 
Looking up at Hiawatha, 
Listening to his call and clamor, 
His unnecessary tumult, 

Till he wearied of the shouting; 60 

And he said to the Kenozha, 

To the pike, the Maskenozha, 

‘Take the bait of this rude fel- 
low, 

Break the line of Hiawatha!’ 

Tn his fingers Hiawatha 
Felt the loose line jerk and tighten; 
As he drew it in, it tugged so 
That the birch canoe stood end- 

wise, 
Like a birch log in the water, 
With the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 70 
Perched and frisking on the sum- 
mit. 
Full of scorn was Hiawatha 
When he saw the fish rise upward, 
Saw the pike, the Maskenozha, 
Coming nearer, nearer to him, 
. And he shouted through the water, 
‘Esa! esa! shame upon you! 
You are but the pike, Kenozha, 
You are not the fish I wanted, 
You are not the King of Fishes!’ 80 
Reeling downward to the bottom 
Sank the pike in great confusion, 
And the mighty sturgeon, Nahma, 
Said to Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
To the bream, with scales of crim- 
son, 

‘Take the bait of this great 
boaster, 

Break the line of Hiawatha!’ 

Slowly upward, wavering, gleam- 

ing, 
Rose the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
Seized the line of Hiawatha, go 


Swung with all his weight upon it, 
Made a whirlpool in the water, 
Whirled the birch canoe in circles, 
Round and round in gurgling ed 
dies, 
Till the circles in the water 
Reached the far-off sandy beaches, 
Till the water-flags and rushes 
Nodded on the distant margins. 

But when Hiawatha saw him 
Slowly rising through the water, 1oa 
Lifting up his disk refulgent, 
Loud he shouted in derision, 
‘Esa! esa! shame upon you! 
You are Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
You are not the fish I wanted, 
You are not the King of Fishes!’ 

Slowly downward, wavering, 

gleaming, 
Sank the Ugudwash, the sun-fish, 
And again the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Heard the shout of Hiawatha, 110 
Heard his challenge of defiance, 
The unnecessary tumult, 
Ringing far across the water. 

From the white sand of the bot- 

tom 
Up he rose with angry gesture, 
Quivering in each nerve and fibre, 
Clashing all his plates of armor, 
Gleaming bright with all his war- 
paint ; 
In his wrath he darted upward, 
Flashing leaped into the sunshine, 
Opened his great jaws, and swal- 
lowed 121 
Both canoe and Hiawatha. 

Down into that darksome cavern 
Plunged the headlong Hiawatha, 
As a log on some black river 
Shoots and plunges down the rap- 

ids, 
Found bimself in utter darkness, 
Groped about in helpless wonder, 
Till he felt a great heart beating, 
Throbbing in that utter darkness. 

And he smote it in his anger, 131 
With his fist, the heart of Nahma, 
Felt the mighty King of Fishes 
Shudder through each nerve and 

fibre, 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


163 





Weard the water gurgle round him 

As he leaped and staggered 
through it, 

Sick at heart, and faint and weary. 

Crosswise then did Hiawatha 
Drag his birch canoe for safety, 
Lest from out the jaws of Nahma, 
In the turmoil and confusion, r4r 
Forth he might be hurled and 

perish. 
And the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Frisked and chattered very gayly, 
Toiled and tugged with Hiawatha 
Till the labor was completed. 

Then said Hiawatha to him, 

*O my little friend, the squirrel, 

Bravely have you toiled to help me; 

Take the thanks of Hiawatha, 150 

And the name which now he gives 
you; 

For hereafter and forever 

Boys shall call you Adjidaumo, 

Tail-in-air the boys shall call 
you!’ 

And again the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Gasped and quivered in the water, 
Then was still, and drifted land- 

ward 
. Tillhe grated on the pebbles, 
Till the listening Hiawatha 159 
Heard him grate upon the margin, 
Felt him strand upon the pebbles, 
Knew that Nahma, King of Fishes, 
Lay there dead upon the margin. 
Then he heard a clang and flap- 
ping, 
As of many wings assembling, 
Heard a screaming and confusion, 
As of birds of prey contending, 
Saw a gleam of light above him, 
Shining through the ribs of Nahma, 
Saw the glittering eyes of sea- 
gulls, 170 
Of Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, peering, 
Gazing at him through the open- 
ing, 
Heard them saying to each other, 
**T is our brother, Hiawatha!’ 
And he shouted from below 
them, 
Cried exulting from the caverns: 


‘Oye sea-gulls ! 
I have slain the sturgeon, Nahma; 
Make the rifts a little larger, 


O my brothers ! 


With your claws the openings 
widen, 180 
Set me free from this dark prison, 
And henceforward and forever 
Men shall speak of your achieve- 
ments, 
Calling you Kayoshk, the sea-gulls, 
Yes, Kayoshk, the Noble Scratch- 
ersi 
And the wild and clamorous sea- 
gulls 
Toiled with beak and claws to- 
gether, 
Made the rifts and openings wider 
In the mighty ribs of Nahma, 189 
And from peril and from prison, 
From the body of the sturgeon, 
From the peril of the water, 
They released my Hiawatha. 
He was standing near his wig- 
wam, 
On the margin of the water, 
And he eailed to old Nokomis, 
Called and beckoned to Nokomis, 
Pointed to the sturgeon, Nahma, 
Lying lifeless on the pebbles, 199 
With the sea-gulls feeding on him. 
‘IT have slain the Mishe-Nahma, 
Slain the King of Fishes!’ said he; 
‘Look! the sea-gulls feed upon 
him, 
Yes, my friends Kayoshk, the sea- 
gulls; 
Drive them not away, Nokomis, 
They have saved me from great 
peril 
In the body of the sturgeon, 
Wait until their meal is ended, 
Till their craws are full with feast- 
ing, 209 
Till they homeward fly, at sunset, 
To their nests among the marshes; 
Then bring all your pots and ket- 
tles, 

And make oil for us in Winter.’ 
And she waited till the sun set, 
Till the pallid moon, the Night-sun, 

Rose above the tranquil water, 


164 


Till Kayoshk, the sated sea-gulls, 

From their banquet rose with 
clamor, 

And across the fiery sunset 219 

Winged their way to far-off islands, 

To their nests among the rushes. 

To his sleep went Hiawatha, 

And Nokomis to her labor, 

Toiling patient in the moonlight, 

Till the sun and moon changed 
places, 

Till the sky was red with sunrise, 

And Kayoshk, the hungry sea- 
gulls, 

Came back from the reedy islands, 

Clamorous for their morning ban- 


quet. 
Three whole days and nights 
alternate 230 


Old Nokomis and the sea-gulls 

Stripped the oily flesh of Nahma, 

Till the waves washed through the 
rib-bones, 

Till the sea-gulls came no longer, 

And upon the sands lay nothing 

But the skeleton of Nahma. 


IX 


HIAWATHA AND THE PEARL- 
FEATHER 


On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
Of the shining Big-Sea-Water, 
Stood Nokomis, the old woman, 
Pointing with her finger westward, 
Over the water pointing westward, 
To the purple clouds of sunset. 
Fiercely the red sun descending 
Burned his way along the heavens, 
Set the sky on fire behind him, 9 
As war-parties, when retreating, 
Burn the prairies on their war- 
trail; 
And the moon, the Night-sun, east- 
ward, 
Suddenly starting from his am- 
bush, 
Followed fast those bloody foot- 
prints, 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


a Se el 


Followed in that fiery war-trail, 
With its glare upon his features. 
And Nokomis, the old woman, 
Pointing with her finger westward, 
Spake these words to Hiawatha: 


‘Yonder dwells the great Pearl. 


Feather, 26 
Megissogwon, the Magician, 
Manito of Wealth and Wampum, 
Guarded by his fiery serpents, 
Guarded by the black pitch-water. 
You can see his fiery serpents, 
The Kenabeek, the great serpents, 
Coiling, playing in the water ; 

You can see the black pitch-water 
Stretching far away beyond them, 
To the purple clouds of sunset! 30 
‘He it was who slew my father, 
By his wicked wiles and cunning, 


When he from the moon de- 
scended, 

When he came on earth to seek 
me. 


He, the mightiest of Magicians, 
Sends the fever from the marshes, 
Sends the pestilential vapors, 
Sends the poisonous exhalations, 
Sends the white fog from the fen- 


lands, 
Sends disease and death among 
us! 40 


‘Take your bow, O Hiawatha, 
Take your arrows, jasper-headed, 
Take your war-club, Puggawau- 

gun, 
And your mittens, Minjekahwun, 
And your birch canoe for sailing, 
And the oil of Mishe-Nahma, 
So to smear its sides, that swiftly 
You may pass the black pitch- 
water; 
Slay this merciless magician, 
Save the people from the fever 5a 
That he breathes across the fen- 
lands, 
And avenge my father’s murder!’ 

Straightway then my Hiawatha 

Armed himself with all his war 
gear, 
Launched his birch canoe for saik 
ing; 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


165 





With his palm its sides he patted, 

Said with glee, ‘Cheemaun, my 
darling, 

O my Birch-canoe! leap forward, 

Where you see the fiery serpents, 

Where you see the black pitch- 


water!’ 60 
Forward leaped Cheemaun ex- 
ulting, 


And the noble Hiawatha 

Sang his war-song wild and woful, 

And above him the war-eagle, 

The Keneu, the great war-eagle, 

Master of all fowls with feathers, 

Screamed and hurtled through the 
heavens. 

Soon he reached the fiery ser- 

pents, 

The Kenabeek, the great serpents, 

Lying huge upon the water, 70 

Sparkling, rippling in the water, 

Lying coiled across the passage, 

With their blazing crests uplifted, 

Breathing fiery fogs and vapors, 

So that none could pass beyond 
them. 

But the fearless Hiawatha 

Cried aloud, and spake in this wise, 

‘Let me pass my way, Kenabeek, 

Let me go upon my journey!’ 


And they answered, hissing 
fiercely, 80 
With their fiery breath made an- 


Swer: 

‘Back, go back! O Shaugodaya! 

Back to old Nokomis, Faint- 
heart!’ 

Then the angry Hiawatha 
Raised his mighty bow of ash-tree, 
Seized his arrows, jasper-headed, 
Shot them fast among the ser- 

pents ; 
Every twanging of the bow-string 
Was a war-cry and a death-cry, 
Every whizzing of an arrow go 
Was a death-song of Kenabeek. 

Weltering in the bloody water, 
Dead lay all the fiery serpents, 
And among them Hiawatha 
Harmless sailed, and cried exult- 

ing: 


‘Onward, O Cheemaun, my dar. 
ling! 
Onward to the black pitch-water !' 
Then he took the oil of Nahma, 
And the bows and sides anointed, 
Smeared them well with oil, that 


swiftly 100 
He might pass the black pitch- 
water. 


All night long he sailed upon it, 
Sailed upon that sluggish water, 
Covered with its mould of ages, 
Black with rotting water-rushes, 
Rank with flags and leaves of 

lilies, 
Stagnant, lifeless, dreary, dismal, 
Lighted by the shimmering moon- 
light, 
And by will-o’-the-wisps illumined, 
Fires by ghosts of dead men kin- 
dled, 110 
Intheir weary night-encampments. 
All the air was white with moun- 
light, 
All the water black with shadow, 
And around him the Suggema, 
The mosquito, sang his war-song, 
And the fire-flies, Wah-wah-taysee, 
Waved their torches to mislead 
him ; 
And the bull-frog, the Dahinda, 
Thrust his head into the moon- 
light, 
Fixed his yellow eyes upon him, 
Sobbed and sank beneath the sur- 
face; 121 
And anon a thousand whistles, 
Answered over all the fen-lands, 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, 
Far off on the reedy margin, 
Heralded the hero’s coming. 

Westward thus fared Hiawatha, 

Toward the realm of Megissog- 
won, 

Toward the land of the Pearl 
Feather, 

Till the level moon stared at him, 

In his face stared pale and hag: 
gard, 131 

Till the sun was hot behind him, 

Till it burned upon his shoulders, 


166 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





And before him on the upland 
He could see the Shining Wigwam 
Of the Manito of Wampum, 
Of the mightiest of Magicians. 
Then once more Cheemaun he 
patted, 
To his birch canoe said, * Onward!’ 
And it stirred in all its fibres, 140 
And with one great bound of tri- 
umph 
Leaped across the water-lilies, 
Leaped through tangled flags and 
rushes, 
And upon the beach beyond them 
Dry-shod landed Hiawatha. 
Straight he took his bow of ash- 
tree, 
On the sand one end he rested, 
With his knee he pressed the mid- 
dle, 
Stretched the faithful bow-string 
tighter, 
Took an arrow, jasper-headed, 150 
Shot it at the Shining Wigwam, 
Sent it singing as a herald, 
As a bearer of his message, 
Of his challenge loud and lofty: 
‘Come forth from your lodge, 
Pearl-Feather ! 
Hiawatha waits your coming!’ 
Straightway from the Shining 
Wigwam 
Came the mighty Megissogwon, 
Tall of stature, broad of shoul- 
der, 
Dark and terrible in aspect, 160 
Clad from head to foot in wam- 
pum, 
Armed with all his warlike weap- 
ons, 
Painted like the sky of morning, 
Streaked with crimson, blue, and 
yellow, 
Crested with great eagle-feathers, 
Streaming upward, streaming out- 
ward. 
‘Well I know you, Hiawatha!’ 
Cried he in a voice of thunder, 
In a tone of loud derision. 
‘Hasten back, O Shaugodaya! 170 
Hasten back among the women, 


Back to old Nokomis, Faint-heart! 
I will slay you as you stand there, 
As of old I slew her father !’ 
But my Hiawatha answered, 
Nothing daunted, fearing nothing: 
‘Big words do not smite like war. 
clubs, 
Boastful breath 
string, 
Taunts are not so sharp as arrows, 
Deeds are better things than words 
are, 18a 
Actions mightier than boastings !° 
Then began the greatest battle 
That the sun had ever looked on, 
That the war-birds ever witnessed. 
Alla Summer’s day it lasted, 
From the sunrise to the sunset ; 
For the shafts of Hiawatha 
Harmless hit the shirt of wam. 
pum, 
Harmless fell the blows he dealt it 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Harmless fell the heavy war. 
club; 1g 
It could dash the rocks asunder, 
But it could not break the meshes 
Of that magic shirt of wampum. 
Till at sunset Hiawatha, 
Leaning on his bow of ash-tree, 
Wounded, weary, and desponding, 
With his mighty war-club broken, 
With his mittens torn and tattered, 
And three useless arrows only, 200 
Paused to rest beneath a pine- 
tree, 

From whose branches trailed the 
mosses, 

And whose trunk was coated ove1 

With the Dead-man’s Moccasin- 
leather, 

With the fungus white and yellow. 

Suddenly from the boughs above 

him 
Sang the Mama, the woodpecker: 
‘Aim your arrows, Hiawatha, 
At the head of Megissogwon, 
Strike the tuft of hair upon it, 210 
At their roots the long black 
tresses}; 
There alone can he be wounded!’ 


is not a bow- 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


167 





Winged with feathers, tipped 
with jasper, 
Swift flew Hiawatha’s arrow, 
Just as Megissogwon, stooping, 
Raised a heavy stone to throw it. 
Full upon the crown it struck him, 
At the roots of his long tresses, 
And he reeled and staggered for- 
ward, 
Plunging like a wounded bison, 220 
Yes, like Pezhekee, the bison, 
When the snow is on the prairie. 
Swifter flew the second arrow, 
In the pathway of the other, 
Piercing deeper than the other, 
Wounding sorer than the other; 
And the knees of Megissogwon 
Shook like windy reeds beneath 
him, 
Bent and trembled like the rushes. 
But the third and latest arrow 
Swiftest flew, and wounded sor- 
est, 231 

And the mighty Megissogwon 

Saw the fiery eyes of Pauguk, 

Saw the eyes of Death glare at 
him, 

Heard his voice call in the dark- 
ness ; 

At the feet of Hiawatha 

Lifeless lay the great Pearl- 
Feather, 

Lay the mightiest of Magicians. 

Then the grateful Hiawatha 

Called the Mama, the woodpecker, 

From his perch among the 
branches 241 

Of the melancholy pine-tree, 

And, in honor of his service, 

Stained with blood the tuft of 
feathers 

On the little head of Mama; 

Even to this day he wears it, 

Wears the tuft of crimson feathers, 

As a symbol of his service. 

Then he stripped the shirt of 

wampum 

From the back of Megissogwon, 

As a trophy of the battle, 251 

As a signal of his conquest. 

On the shore he left the body, 


Half on land and half in water, 
In the sand his feet were buried, 
And his face was in the water. 
And above him, wheeled and clam- 
ored 
The Keneu, the great war-eagle, 
Sailing round in narrower circles, 
Hovering nearer, nearer, nearer. 
From the wigwam Hiawatha 261 
Bore the wealth of Megissogwon, 
All his wealth of skins and wam- 
pum, 
Furs of bison and of beaver, 
Furs of sable and of ermine, 
Wampum belts and strings and 
pouches, 
Quivers wrought with beads of 
wampum, 
Filled with arrows, silver-headed. 
Homeward then he sailed exult- 
ing, 
Homeward through the black 
pitch-water, 270 
Homeward through the weltering 
serpents, 
With the trophies of the battle, 
With a shout and song of triumph. 
On the shore stood old Nokomis, 
On the shore stood Chibiabos, 
And the very strong man, K wasind, 
Waiting for the hero’s coming, 
Listening to his songs of triumph. 
And the people of the viliage 
Welcomed him with songs and 
dances, 280 
Made a joyous feast, and shouted : 
‘Honor be to Hiawatha! 
He has slain the great Pearl- 
Feather, 
Slain the mightiest of Magicians, 
Him, who sent the fiery fever, 
Sent the white fog from the fen- 
lands, 
Sent disease and death among us !? 
Ever dear to Hiawatha 
Was the memory of Mama! 
And in token of his friendship, 290 
As a mark of his remembrance, 
He adorned and decked his pipe- 
stem 
With the crimson tuft of feathers, 


168 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





With the blood-red crest of Mama. 
But the wealth of Megissogwon, 
All the trophies of the battle, 

He divided with his people, 
Shared it equally among them. 


x 
HIAWATHA’S WOOING 


‘As unto the bow the cord is, 
So unto the man is woman; 
Though she bends him, she obeys 
him, 
Though she draws him, yet she 
follows; 
Useless each without the other !’ 
Thus the youthful Hiawatha 
Said within himself and pondered, 
Much perplexed by various feel- 
ings, 
Listless, longing, hoping, fearing, 
Dreaming still of Minnehaha, 10 
Of the lovely Laughing Water, 
In the land of the Dacotahs. 
‘Wed a maiden of your people,’ 
Warning said the old Nokomis ; 
‘Go not eastward, go not west- 
ward, 
For a stranger, whom we know 
not! 
Like a fire upon the hearth-stone 
Is a neighbor’s homely daughter, 
Like the starlight or the moon- 
light 
Is the handsomest of strangers!’ 
Thus dissuading spake Noko- 
mis, 21 
And my Hiawatha answered 
Only this: ‘Dear old Nokomis, 
Very pleasant is the firelight, 
But I like the starlight better, 
Better do I like the moonlight!’ 
Gravely then said old Nokomis; 
‘Bring not here an idle maiden, | 
Bring not here a useless woman, 
Hands unskilful, feet unwilling ; 
Bring a wife with nimble fingers, 
Heart and hand that move to- 
gether, a2 


Feet that run on willing errands!’ | 


Smiling answered Hiawatha: 
‘Tn the land of the Dacotahs 
Lives the Arrow-maker’s daugh 

ter, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Handsomest of all the women. 
I will bring her to your wigwam, 
She shall run upon your errands, 
Be your starlight, moonlight, fire. 
light, 41 
Be the sunlight of my people!’ 

Still dissuading said Nokomis: 
‘Bring not to my lodge a stranger 
From the land of the Dacotahs! 
Very fierce are the Dacotahs, 
Often is there war between us, 
There are feuds yet unforgotten, 
Wounds that ache and still may 

open!’ 

Laughing answered Hiawatha: 
‘For that reason, if no other, = 51 
Would I wed the fair Dacotah, 
That our tribes might be united, 
That old feuds might be forgot. 

ten, 
And old wounds be healed for- 
ever !? 

Thus departed Hiawatha 
To the land of the Dacotahs, 

To the land of handsome women; 
Striding over moor and meadow, 
Through interminable forests, 60 
Through uninterrupted silence. 

With his moccasins of magic, 

At each stride a mile he mea- 
sured ; 

Yet the way seemed long before 
him, 

And his heart outran his foot- 
steps ; 

And he journeyed without rest- 
ing, 

Till he heard the cataract’s laugh- 
ter, 

Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 

Calling to him through the silence. 

‘Pleasant is the sound!’ he mur. 


mured, 70 
‘Pleasant is the voice that calls 
me!’ 


On the outskirts of the forests, - 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


— 


Twixt the shadow and the sun- 
shine, 

Herds of fallow deer were feed- 
ing, 

But they saw not Hiawatha; 

To his bow he whispered, ‘ Fail 
not!’ 

To his arrow whispered, ‘Swerve 
not!’ 

Sent it singing on its errand, 

To the red heart of the roebuck ; 

Threw the deer across his shoul- 


der, 80 
And sped forward without paus- 
ing. 


At the doorway of his wigwam 

Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, 

In the land of the Dacotahs, 

Making arrow-heads of jasper, 

Arrow-heads of chalcedony. 

At his side, in all her beauty, 

Sat the lovely Minnehaha, 

Sat his daughter, Laughing Wa- 
tele 

Plaiting mats of flags and rushes ; 

Of the past the old man’s thoughts 
were, g! 

And the maiden’s of the future. 

He was thinking, as he sat 

there, 

Of the days when with such ar- 
rows 

He had struck the deer and bison, 

On the Muskoday, the meadow ; 

Shot the wild goose, flying south- 
ward, 

On the wing, the clamorous Wawa; 

Thinking of the great war-parties, 

How they came to buy his ar- 


rows, 100 
Could not fight without his ar- 
rows. 


Ah, no more such noble warriors 

Could be found on earth as they 
were! 

Now the men were all like wo- 
men, 

Dnly used their tongues for wea- 
pons! 

She was thinking of a hunter, 
From another tribe and country, 


169 


Young and tall and very ‘hand. 
some, 
Who one morning, in the Spring- 
time, : 
Came to buy her father’s arrows, 
Sat and rested in the wigwam, 111 
Lingered long about the door- 
way, 
Looking back as he departed. 
She had heard her father praise 
him, 
Praise his courage and his wis- 
dom; 
Would he come again for arrows 
To the Falls of Minnehaha ? 
On the mat her hands lay idle, 
And her eyes were very dreamy. 
Through their thoughts they 
heard a footstep, 120 
Heard a rustling in the branches, 
And with glowing cheek and fore- 
head, 
With the deer upon his shoulders, 
Suddenly from out the woodlands 
Hiawatha stood before them. 
Straight the ancient Arrow. 
maker 
Looked up gravely from his labor, 
Laid aside the unfinished arrow, 
Bade him enter at the doorway, 
Saying, as he rose to meet him, 
‘Hiawatha, you are welcome!’ 131 
At the feet of Laughing Water 
Hiawatha laid his burden, 
Threw the red deer from bis shoul- 


ders; 
And the maiden looked up at him, 
Looked up from her mat of 
rushes, 


Said with gentle look and accent, 
‘You are welcome, Hiawatha !? 
Very spacious was the wigwam, 

Made of deer-skins dressed and 
whitened, 

With the Gods of the Dacotahs 

Drawn and painted on its cur- 
tains, 

And so tall the doorway, hardly 

Hiawatha stooped to enter, 

Hardly touched his eagle-feathers, 

As he entered at the doorway. 


140 


37° 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





Then uprose the Laughing Wa- 
ter, 
From the ground fair Minnehaha, 
Laid aside her mat unfinished, 
prought forth food and set before 


them, 150 

Water brought them from the 
brooklet, 

Gave them food in earthen ves- 
sels, 

Gave them drink in bowls of bass- 
wood, 

Listened while the guest was 
speaking, 

Listened while her father an- 
swered, 


But not once her lips she opened, 
Nota single word she uttered. 
Yes, as in a dream she listened 
To the words of Hiawatha, 
As he talked of old Nokomis, 160 
Who had nursed him in his child- 
hood, 
As he told of his companions, 
Chibiabos, the musician, 
And the very strong man, Kwa- 
sind, 
And of happiness and plenty 
Tn the land of the Ojibways, 
In the pleasant land and peace- 
ful. 
* After many years of warfare, 
Many years of strife and blood- 


shed, 
There is peace between the Ojib- 
ways 170 


And the tribe of the Dacotahs.’ 
Thus continued Hiawatha, 
And then added, speaking slowly, 
*That this-peace may last forever, 
And our hands be clasped more 
closely, 
And our hearts be more united, 
Give me as my wife this maiden, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Loveliest of Dacotah women!’ 
And the ancient Arrow-maker 
Paused a moment ere he an- 
swered, 181 
Smoked a little while in silence, 
Looked at Hiawatha proudly, 


Fondly iooked at Laughing Wa 
ter, 

And made answer very gravely: 

‘Yes, if Minnehaha wishes; 

Let your heart speak, Minne. 
haha!’ 

And the lovely Laughing Wa 

ter 

Seemed more lovely as she stood 
there, 

Neither willing nor reluctant, 

As she went to Hiawatha, 

Softly took the seat beside him, 

While she said, and blushed to 
say it, 

*T will follow you, my husband!’ 
This was Hiawatha’s wooing! 
Thus it was he won the daughter 

Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 
Tn the land of the Dacotahs! 
From the wigwam he departed, 
Leading with him Laughing Wa- 
ter; 200 
Hand in hand they went together, 
Through the woodland and the 
meadow, 

Leit the old man standing lonely 

At the doorway of his wigwam, 

Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 

Calling to them from the distance, 

Crying to them from afar off, 

“Fare thee well, O Minnehaha!’ 

And the ancient Arrow-maker 

Turned again unto his labor, 210 

Sat down by his sunny doorway, 

Murmuring to himself, and say- 
ing: 

‘Thus it is our daughters leave 
us, 

Those we love, and those who love 
us! 

Just when they have learned to 
help us, 

When we are old and lean upon 
them, 

Comes a youth with flaunting fea- 
thers, 

With his flute of reeds, a stranger 

Wanders piping through the vik 
lage, 

Beckons to the fairest maiden, 220 


190 


THE 


SONG OF HIAWATHA 


171 





And she follows where he leads 
her, 

Leaving all 
stranger !’ ; 

Pleasant was the journey home- 

ward, 

Through interminable forests, 

Over meadow, over mountain, 

Over river, hill, and hollow. 

Short it seemed to Hiawatha, 


things for the 


Though they journeyed’ very 
slowly, 

Though his pace he checked and 
slackened 229 


To the steps of Laughing Water. 
Over wide and rushing rivers 
In his arms he bore the maiden; 
Light he thought her as a feather, 
As the plume upon his head-gear ; 
Cleared the tangled pathway for 
her, 
Bent aside the swaying branches, 
Made at night a lodge of branches, 
And a bed with boughs of hem- 
lock, 
And a fire before the doorway 
With the dry cones of the pine- 
tree. 240 
All the travelling winds went 
with them, 
Over the meadows, through the 
forest ; 
All the stars of night looked at 
them, 
Watched with sleepless eyes their 
slumber ; 
From his ambush in the oak-tree 
Peeped the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Watched with eager eyes the 
lovers; 
And the rabbit, the Wabasso, 
Scampered from the path before 
them, 249 
Peering, peeping from his burrow, 
Sat erect upon his haunches, 
Watched with curious eyes the 
lovers. 
Pleasant was the journey home- 
ward! 
All the birds sang loud and sweet- 
ly 


Songs of happiness and heart’s 
ease; 
Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
‘Happy are you, Hiawatha, 
Having such a wife to love you!? 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 259 
‘Happy are you, Laughing Water, 
Having such a noble husband !? 
From the sky the sun beniguant 
Looked upon them through the 
branches, 
Saying to them, ‘O my children, 
Love is sunshine, hate is shadow, 
Life is checkered shade and sun- 
shine, 
Rule by love, O Hiawatha !? 
From the sky the moon looked 
at them, 
Filled the lodge with mystic splen- 
dors, 
Whispered to them, ‘O my chil. 
dren, 270 
Day is restless, night is quiet, 
Man imperious, woman feeble ; 
Half is mine, although I follow; 
Rule by patience, Laughing Wa- 
Ler 
Thus it was they journeyed 
homeward; 
Thus it was that Hiawatha 
To the lodge of old Nokomis 
Brought the moonlight, starlight, 
firelight, 
Brought the sunshine of his peo. 
ple, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 280 
Handsomest of all the women 
In the land of the Dacotahs. 
In the land of handsome women. 


XI 
HIAWATHA’S WEDDING-FEAST 


You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Kee. 
wis, 

How the handsome Yenadizze 

Danced at Hiawatha’s wedding; 

How the gentle Chibiabos, 

He the sweetest of musicians, 


172 


Sang his songs of love and long- 
ing; 

How Iagoo, the great boaster, 

He the marvellous story-teller, 


Told his tales of strange adven- 
ture, 

That the feast might be more joy- 
ous, 10 

That the time might pass more 
gayly, 


And the guests be more contented. 
Sumptuous was the feast Noko- 
mis 
Made at Hiawatha’s wedding; 
All the bowls were made of bass- 
wood, 
White and polished very smoothly, 
All the spoons of horn of bison, 
Black and polished very smoothly. 
She had sent through all the vil- 


lage 
Messengers with wands of willow, 
AS a Sign of invitation, 21 


As a token of the feasting ; 

And the wedding guests assem- 
bled, 

Clad in all their richest raiment, 

Robes of fur and belts of wampum, 

Splendid with their paint and 
plumage, 

Beautiful with beads and tassels. 

First they ate the sturgeon, 

Nahma, 
And the pike, the Maskenozha, 
Caught and cooked by old Noko- 

mis ; 30 
Then on pemican they feasted, 
Pemican and buffalo marrow, 
Hauneh of deer and hump of bison, 
Yellow cakes of the Mondamin, 
And the wild rice of the river. 

But the gracious Hiawatha, 
And the lovely Laughing Water, 
And the careful old Nokomis, 
Tasted not the food before them, 
Only waited on the others, 40 
Only served their guests in silence. 

And when all the guests had 

finished, 
Old Nokomis, brisk and busy, 
From an ample pouch of otter 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA | 








oa 


Filled the red-stone pipes for smok. 
ing 

With tobacco from the South. 
land, 

Mixed with bark of the red wil. 
low, 

And with herbs and leaves of fra- 
grance. 

Then she said, ‘O Pau-Puk-Kee- 

wis, 

Dance for us your merry dances, 

Dance the Beggai’s Dance to 


please us, 51 

That the feast may be more joy- 
ous, 

That the time may pass more 
gayly, 

And our guests be more content- 
ed!? 

Then the handsome Pau-Puk- 

Keewis, 


He the idle Yenadizze, 

He the merry mischief-maker, 

Whom the people called the Storm- 
Fool, 

Rose among the guests assembled. 

Skilled was he in sports and 

pastimes, 60 

In the merry dance of snow-shoes, 

In the play of quoits and balLplay ; 

Skilled was he in games of hazard, 

In all games of skill and hazard, 

Pugasaing, the Bowl and Count- 


ers, 

Kuntassoo, the Game of Plum- 
stones. 

Though the warriors called him 
Faint-Heart, 


Called him coward, Shaugodaya, 

Idler, gambler, Yenadizze, 

Little heeded he their jesting, 70 

Little cared he for their insults, 

For the women and the maidens 

Loved the handsome Pau- Puk 
Keewis. 

He was dressed in shirt of doe- 

skin, 

White and soft, and fringed with 
ermine, 

All inwrought with beads of wame- 
pum ; 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


173 





He was dressed in deer-skin leg- 
gings, 

Fringed with hedgehog quills and 
ermine, 

And in moceasins of buck-skin, 

Thick with quills and beads em- 


broidered. 80 
On his head were plumes of swan’s 
down, 


On his heels were tails of foxes, 

In one hand a fan of feathers, 

And a pipe was in the other. 

Barred with streaks of red and 

yellow, 

Streaks of blue and bright ver- 
milion, 

Shone the face of Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

From his forehead fell his tresses, 

Smooth, and parted like a wo- 


man’s, 
Shining bright with oil, and 
plaited, go 
Hung with braids of scented 


grasses, 

As among the guests assembled, 

To the sound of flutes and singing, 

To the sound of drums and voices, 

Rose the handsome Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis, 

And began his mystic dances. 

First he danced a solemn mea- 

sure, 

Very slow in step and gesture, 

In and out among the pine-trees, 

Through the shadows and the sun- 
shine, 100 

Treading softly like a panther. 

Then more swiftly and still swifter, 

Whirling, spinning round in cir- 


cles, 

Leaping o’er the guests assem- 
bled, 

Eddying round and round the wig- 
wam, 

Till the leaves went whirling with 
him, 


Till the dust and wind together 

Swept in eddies round about him. 
Then along the sandy margin 

Of the lake, the Big-Sea-Water, 110 

On he sped with frenzied gestures, 


Stamped upon the sand, and tossed 
it 

Wildly in the air around him ; 

Till the wind became a whirlwind, 

Till the sand was blown and sifted 

Like great snowdrifts o’er the 
landseape, 

Heaping all the shores with Sand 
Dunes, 

Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo! 

Thus the merry Pau-Puk-Keewis 

Danced his Beggar’s Dance to 
please them, 120 

And, returning, sat down laughing 

There among the guests assem- 
bled, 

Sat and fanned himself serenely 

With his fan of turkey-feathers. 

Then they said to Chibiabos, 

To the friend of Hiawatha, 

To the sweetest of all singers, 

To the best of all musicians, 

‘Sing to us, O Chibiabos! 

Songs of love and songs of long- 


ing, 130 
That the feast may be more joy- 
ous, 


That the time may pass more gayly, 
And our guests be more con- 
tented !? 
And the gentle Chibiabos 
Sang in accents sweet and tender, 
Sang in tones of deep emotion, 
Songs of love and songs of longing; 
Looking still at Hiawatha, 138 
Looking at fair Laughing Water, 
Sang he softly, sang in this wise: 
‘Onaway! Awake, beloved! 


‘Thou the wild-flower of the forest, 


Thou the wild-bird of the prairie! 
Thou with eyes so soft and fawn- 
like! 
‘Tf thou only lookest at me, 
Tam happy, Iam happy, 
As the lilies of the prairie, 
When they feel the dew upon 


them! 
‘Sweet thy breath is as the 
fragrance 149 


Of the wild-flowers in the morning, 
As their fragrance is at evening, 


174 


In the Moon when leaves are fall- 
ing. 
‘Does not all the blood within 
me 
Leap to meet thee, leap to meet 
thee, 
As the springs to meet the sun- 
shine, 
In the Moon when nights are 
brightest ? 
‘Onaway! my heart sings to 
thee, 
Sings with joy when thou art near 
me, 
As the sighing, singing branches 
In the pleasant Moon of Straw- 
berries! 160 
‘When thou art not pleased, be- 
loved, 
Then my heart is sad and dark- 
ened, 
As the shining river darkens 
When the clouds drop shadows on 
it! 
‘When thou smilest, my beloved, 
Then my troubled heart is bright- 
ened, 
As in sunshine gleam the ripples 
That the cold wind makes in riv- 
ers. 
‘Smiles the earth, and smile the 
waters, 
Smile the cloudless skies above 
us, 170 
But I lose the way of smiling 
When thou art no longer near me! 
‘I myself, myself! behold me! 
Blood of my beating heart, behold 
me! 
Oh awake, awake, beloved! 
Onaway ! awake, beloved!’ 
Thus the gentle Chibiabos 
Sang his song of love and long- 
ing; 
And Iagoo, the great boaster, 
He the marvellous story-teller, 180 
He the friend of old Nokomis, 
Jealous of the sweet musician, 
Jealous of the applause they gave 
him, 
Saw in all the eyes around him, 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





Saw in all their looks and ges 


tures, 

That the wedding guests assem. 
bled 

Longed to hear his pleasant sto. 
ries, 


His immeasurable falsehoods, 
Very boastful was Iagoo; 
Never heard he an adventure 
But himself had met a greater ; 
Never any deed of daring 
But himself had done a bolder; 
Never any marvellous story 
But himself could tell a stranger. 
Would you listen to his boasting, 
Would you only give him credence, 
No one ever shot an arrow 
Half so far and high as he had; 
Ever caught so many fishes, 200 
Ever killed so many reindeer, 
Ever trapped so many beaver! 
None could run so fast as he 


19¢ 


could, 

None could dive so deep as hoe 
could, 

None could swim so far as he 
could ; 


None had made so many journeys, 

None had seen so many wonders, 

As this wonderful Iagoo, 

As this marvellous story-teller! 

Thus his name became a by-word 

And a jest among the people; ars 

And whene’er a boastful hunter 

Praised his own address too 
highly, 

Or a warrior, home returning, 

Talked too much of his achieve- 
ments, 

All his hearers cried, ‘ Iagoo! 

Here’s Iagoo come among us!’ 

He it was who carved the cradle 

Of the little Hiawatha, 

Carved its framework out of lin- 
den, 220 

Bound it strong with reindeer 
sinews; 

He it was who taught him later 

How to make his bows and arrows, 

How to make the bows of ash-tree, 

And the arrows of the oak-tree. 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





175 





So among the guests assembled 
At my Hiawatha’s wedding 
Sat Iagoo, old and ugly, 
Sat the marvellous story-teller. 
And they said, ‘O good Iagoo, 
Tell us now a tale of wonder, 23r 
Tell us of some strange adventure, 
That the feast may be more joyous, 
That the time may pass more 
gayly, 

And our guests be more con- 
tented!” 

And Iagoo answered straight- 

way, 

* You shall hear a tale of wonder, 

You shall hear. the strange ad- 
ventures 

Of Osseo, the Magician, 239 

From the Evening Star descended.’ 


XII 
THE SON OF THE EVENING STAR 


CAN it be the sun descending 

O’er the level plain of water? 

Or the Red Swan floating. flying, 

Wounded by the magie arrow, 

Staining all the waves with crim- 
son, 

With the crimson of its life-blood, 

Filling all the air with splendor, 

With the splendor of its plumage ? 

Yes; it is the sun descending, 

Sinking down into the water; 10 

All the sky is stained with purple, 

All the water flushed with crim- 
son! 

No; it is the Red Swan floating, 

Diving down beneath the water; 

To the sky its wings are lifted, 

With its blood the waves are red- 
dened ! 

Over it the Star of Evening 

Melts and trembles through the 
purple, 

Hangs suspended in the twilight. 

No; itis a bead of wampum 20 

On the robes of the Great Spirit 

As he passes through the twilight, 


Walks in silence through the hea- 
vens. 
This with joy beheld Iagoo 
And he said in haste: *‘ Behold i¢! 
See the sacred Star of Evening! 
You shall hear a tale of wonder, 
Hear the story of Osseo, 
Son of the Evening Star, Osseo! 
“Once, in days no more remem- 
bered, 30 
Ages nearer the beginning, 
When the heavens were closer to 
us, 
And the Gods were more familiar, 
In the North-land lived a hunter, 
With ten young and comely daugh- 
ters, 
Tall and lithe as wands of willow; 
Only Oweenee, the youngest, 
She the wilful and the wayward, 
She the silent, dreamy maiden, 
Was the fairest of the sisters. 40 
‘All these women married war- 
riors, 
Married brave and haughty hus- 
bands ; 
Only Oweenee, the youngest, 
Laughed and flouted all her lovy- 
ers, 
All her young and handsome 
suitors, 
And then married old Osseo, 
Old Osseo, poor and ugly, 
Broken with age and weak with 
coughing, : 
Always coughing like a squirrel. 
‘ Ah, but beautiful within him so 
Was the spirit of Osseo, 
From the Evening Star descended, 
Star of Evening, Star of Woman, 
Star of tenderness and passion! 
All its fire was tn his bosom, 
All its beauty in his spirif, 
All its mystery in his being, 
All its splendor in his language! 
‘And her lovers, the rejected, 
Handsome men with belts of wain- 


pum, 6c 
Handsome men with paint und 
feathers, 


Pointed at her in derision, 


176 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





Followed her with jest and laugh- 
ter. 

But she said: “ I care not for you, 

Care not for your belts of wam- 


pum, 

Care not for your paint and 
feathers, 

Care not for your jests and laugh- 
ter; 


Iam happy with Osseo!” 
‘Once to some great feast invited, 
Through the damp and dusk of 
evening, 70 
Walked together the ten sisters, 
Walked together with their hus- 
bands; 
Slowly followed old Osseo, 
With fair Oweenee beside him; 
All the others chatted gayly, 
These two only walked in silence. 
‘At the western sky Osseo 
Gazed intent, as if imploring, 
Often stopped and gazed imploring 


At the trembling Star of Evening, . 


At the tender Star of Woman; 8r 
And they heard him 
softly, 
“ Ah, showain nemeshin, Nosa! 
Pity, pity me, my fatheft!” 
“Listen!” said the eldest sister, 
“ He is praying to his father ! 
What a pity that the old man 
Does not stumble in the pathway, 
Does not break his neck eby fall- 
ing!” 89 
And they laughed till all the forest 
Rang with their unseemly laugh- 
ter. 
‘On their pathway through the 
woodlands 
Lay an oak, by storms uprooted, 
Lay the great trunk of an oak-tree, 


Buried half in leaves and mosses, | 


Mouldering, crumbling, huge and 
hollow. 

And Osseo, when he saw it, 

Gave a shout, a ery of anguish, 

Leaped into its yawning cavern, 

At one end went in an old man, roo 

Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly ; 

From the other came a young man, 


murmur : 
| Till they reached the lodge af 


Tall and straight and strong ana 
handsome. 
‘Thus Osseo was transfigured, 


Thus restored to youth and 

beauty ; 

But, alas for good Osseo, 

And for Oweenee, the faithful! 

Strangely, too, was she transfig- 
ured, 108 

Changed into a weak old woman, 

With a staff she tottered onward, 

Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly! 

And the sisters and their husbands 

Laughed until the echoing forest 

Rang with their unseemly laugh- 
ter. 

‘But Osseo turned not from her, 

Walked with slower step beside 
her, 

Took her hand, as brown and with- 
ered 


)} As an oak-leaf is in Winter, 


Called her sweetheart, Nenemoo- 


sha, 
Soothed her with soft words of 
kindness, 120 


feasting, 
Till they sat down in the wigwam, 
Sacred to the Star of Evening, 
To the tender Star of Woman. 
‘Wrapt in visions, lost in dream- 
ing, 
At the banquet sat Osseo; 
All were merry, all were happy, 
All were joyous but Osseo. 
Neither food nor drink he tasted, 
Neither did he speak nor listen, r30 
But as one bewildered sat he, 
Looking dreamily and sadly, 
First at Oweenee, then upward 
At the gleaming sky above them, 
‘Then a voice was heard, a whis 
per, 
Coming from the starry distance, 
Coming from the empty vastness, 
Low, and musical, and tender; 
And the voice said: “*O Osseo! 
O my son, my best beloved ! 140 
Broken are the spells that bound 
you, 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


177 





All the charms of the magicians, 

All the magic powers of evil; 

Come to me; ascend, Osseo! 

‘“ Taste the food that stands be- 

fore you: 

It is blessed and enchanted, 

It has magic virtues in it, 

It will change you to a Spirit. 

All your bowls and all your ket- 
tles 

. Shall be wood and clay no longer; 

But the bowls be changed to wam- 
pum, 151 

And the kettles shall be silver ; 

They shall shine like shells of 


searlet, 
Like the fire shall gleam and glim- 
mer. 
‘“ And the women shall no 
longer 


Bear the dreary doom of labor, 
But be changed to birds, and glis- 
ten 
With the beauty of the starlight, 
Painted with the dusky splendors 
Of the skies and clouds of even- 
ing!” 160 
‘What Osseo heard as whispers, 
What as words he comprehended, 
Was but music to the others, 
Music as of birds afar off, 
Of the whippoorwill afar off, 
Of the lonely Wawonaissa 
Singing in the darksome forest, 
‘Then the lodge began to trem- 
ble, 
Straight began to shake.and trem- 
ble, 
And they felt it rising, rising, 170 
Slowly through the air ascending, 
From the darkness of the tree-tops 
Forth into the dewy starlight, 
Till it passed the topmost branch- 
es; 
And behold! the wooden. dishes 
All were changed to shells of scar- 
let ! 
“nd behold! the earthen kettles 
All were changed to bowls of sil- 
ver ! 
4nd the roof-poles of the wigwam 


Were as glittering rods of sil- 
ver, 180 
And the roof of bark upon them 
As the shining shards of beetles, 
‘Then Osseo gazed around him, 
And he saw the nine fair sisters, 
All the sisters and their husbands, 
Changed to birds of various plu- 


mage. 

Some were jays and some were 
magpies, 

Others thrushes, others black- 
birds; 

And they hopped, and sang, and 
twittered, 

Perked and fluttered all their fea- 
thers, 190 


Strutted in their shining plumage, 
And their tails like fans unfolded. 
‘Only Oweenee, the youngest, 
Was not changed, but sat in si- 

lence, 
Wasted, wrinkled, old, and ugly, 
Looking sadly at the others , 
Till Osseo, gazing upward, 
Gave another ery of anguish, 
Sucha ery as he had uttered 
By the oak-tree in the forest. 200 
‘Then returned her youth and 
beauty, 
And her soiled and tattered gar- 
ments 
Were transformed to robes of er- 
mine, 
And her staff became a feather, 
Yes, a shining silver feather ! 
‘And again the wigwam trem- 
bled, 
Swayed and rushed through airy 
currents, 
Through transparent cloud and 
vapor, 
And amid celestial splendors 
On the Evening Star alighted, 210 
As a snow-flake falls on snow- 
flake, 
As a leaf drops on a river, 
As the thistle-down on water. 
‘Forth with cheerful words of 
welcome 
Came the father of Osseo, 


178 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





He with radiant locks of silver, 
He with eyes serene and tender. 
And he said: “ My son, Osseo, 
Hang the cage of birds you bring 
there, 
Hang the cage with rods of sil- 
ver, 220 
And the birds with glistening fea- 
thers, 
At the doorway of my wigwam.” 
‘At the door he hung the bird- 
cage, 
And they entered in and gladly 
Listened to Osseo’s father, 
Ruler of the Star of Evening, 
As he said: “ Omy Osseo! 
I have had compassion on you, 
Given you back your youth and 
beauty, 
Into birds of various plumage 230 
Changed your sisters and their 
husbands ; 
Changed them thus because they 
mocked you 
In the figure of the old man, 
In that aspect sad and wrinkled, 
Could not see your heart of pas- 
sion, 
Could not see your youth immor- 
tal: 
Only Oweenee, the faithful, 
Saw your naked heart and loved 
you. 
*“In the lodge that glimmers 
yonder, 
In the little star that twinkles 240 
Through the vapors, on the left 
hand, 
Lives the envious Evil Spirit, 
The Wabeno, the magician, 
Who transformed you to an old 
man. 
Take heed lest his beams fall on 
you, 
Yor the rays he darts around him 
Are the power of his enchantment, 
ware the arrows that he uses.” 
‘Many years, in peace and quiet, 
On the peaceful Star of Even- 
ing 250 
wwelt Osseo with his father; 


Many years, in song and flutter, 
At the doorway of the wigwam, 
Hung the cage with rods of silver, 
And fair Oweenee, the faithful, 
Bore a son unto Osseo, 
With the beauty of his mother, 
With the courage of his father. 
‘And the boy grew up and proc 
spered, 
And Osseo, to delight him, 266 
Made him little bows and arrows, 
Opened the great cage of silver, 
And let loose his aunts and uncles, 
All those birds with glossy fear 
thers, 
For his little son to shoot at. 
‘Round and round they wheeled 
and darted, 
Filled the Evening Star with mu- 


sic, 

With their songs of joy and free- 
dom; 

Filled the Evening Star with splen- 
dor, 

With the fluttering of their plu- 
mage ; 270 


Till the boy, the little hunter, 

Bent his bow and shot an arrow, 

Shot a swift and fatal arrow, 

And a bird, with shining feathers, 

At his feet fell wounded sorely. 

‘But, O wondrous transforma. 

tion ! 

’T was no bird he saw before him, 

’T was a beautiful young woman, 

With the arrow in her bosom! 

‘When her blood fell on the 

planet, 280 

On the sacred Star of Evening, 

Broken was the spell of magic, 

Powerless was the strange en- 
chantment, 

And the youth, the fearless bow- 
man, 

Suddenly felt himself descending, 

Held by unseen hands, but sinking 

Downward through the empty 
spaces, 

Downward through the clouds an@ 
vapors, 

Till he rested on an island, 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


179 





On an island, green and grassy, 290 

Yonder in the Big-Sea- Water. 
‘After him he saw descending 

All the birds with shining fea- 


thers, 

Fluttering, falling, wafted down- 
ward, 

Like the painted leaves of Au- 
tumn ; 


And the lodge with poles of silver, 
With its roof like wings of beetles, 
Like the shining shards of beetles, 
By the winds of heaven uplifted, 
Slowly sank upon the island, 300 
Bringing back the good Osseo, 
Bringing Oweenee, the faithful. 
‘Then the birds, again transfig- 
ured, 
Reassumed the shape of mortals, 
Took their shape, but not their 
Stature ; 
They remained as Little People, 
Like the pygmies, the Puk-Wud- 
jies, 


Andon pleasant nights of Summer, 


When the Evening Star was shin- 


ing, 
Hand in hand they danced _ to- 
gether 310 


On the island’s craggy headlands, 
On the sand-beach low and level. 
‘Still their glittering lodge is 
seen there, 
On the tranquil Summer evenings, 
And upon the shore the fisher 


Sometimes hears their happy 
voices, 

Sees them dancing in the star- 
light! 


When the story was completed, 
When the wondrous tale was 


ended, 
Looking round upon his listen- 
ers, 320 


Solemnly Iagoo added: 

*There are great men, I have 
known such, » 

Whom their people understand 
not, 

Whom they even make a jest of, 

Scoff and jeer at in derision. 


From the story of Osseo 
Let us learn the fate of jesters!? 
All the wedding guests delighted 
Listened to the marvellous story, 
Listened laughing and applaud- 
ing, 330 
And they whispered to each other : 
‘Does he mean himself, I wonder? 
And are we the aunts and uncles?’ 
Then again sang Chibiabos, 
Sang a song of love and longing, 
In those accents sweet and ten- 
der, 
In those tones of pensive sadness, 
Sang a maiden’s lamentation 
For her lover, her Algonquin. 
‘When I think of my beloved, 
Ah me! think of my beloved, 341 
When my heart is thinking of him, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin! 
‘Ah me! when I parted from 
him, 
Round my neck he hung the wam- 
pum, 
AS a pledge, the snow-white wam- 
pum, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin! 
‘I will go with you, he whis- 
pered, 348 
Ah me! to your native country ; 
Let me go with you, he whispered, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin! 
‘Far away, away, I answered, 
Very far away, I answered, 
Ah me! is my native country, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin! 
‘When I looked back to behold 
him, 
Where we parted, to behold him, 
After me he still was gazing, 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin! 
‘By the tree he still was stand- 
ing, 360 
By the fallen tree was standing, 
That had dropped into the water, 
Omy sweetheart, my Algonquin! 
‘When I think of my beloved, 
Ah me! think of my beloved, 
When my heart is thinking of him 
O my sweetheart, my Algonquin! 
Such was Hiawatha’s Wedding, 


180 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





Such the dance of Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis, 

Such the story of Iagoo, 

Such the songs of Chibiabos ; 

Thus the wedding banquet ended, 

And the wedding guests departed, 

Leaving Hiawatha happy 

With the night and Minnehaha. 


379 


XIII 
BLESSING THE CORNFIELDS 


SING, O Song of Hiawatha, 

Of the happy days that followed, 

In the land of the Ojibways, 

In the pleasant land and peaceful! 

Sing the mysteries of Mondamin, 

Sing the Blessing of the Cornfields! 

Buried was the bloody hatchet, 

Buried was the dreadful war-club, 

Buried were all warlike weapons, 

And the war-cry was forgotten. 10 

There was peace among the na- 
tions ; 

Unmolested roved the hunters, 

Built the birch canoe for sailing, 

Caught the fish in lake and river, 

Shot the deer and trapped the 
beaver ; 

Unmolested worked the women, 

Made their sugar from the maple, 

Gathered wildrice in the meadows, 

Dressed the skins of deer and 
beaver. ‘ 

All around the happy village 20 

Stood the maize-fields, green and 
shining, 

Waved the green plumes of Mon- 
damin, 

Waved his soft and sunny tresses, 

Filling all the land with plenty. 

*T was the women who in Spring- 
time 

Planted the broad fields and fruit- 
ful, 

Buried in the earth Mondamin ; 

*T was the women who in Autumn 

Stripped the yellow husks of har- 
vest, 


Stripped the garments from Mon- 
damin, 30 

Even as Hiawatha taught them. 

Once, when all the maize was 

planted, 

Hiawatha, wise and thoughtful, 

Spake and said to Minnehaha, 

To his wife, the Laughing Water: 

‘You shall bless to-night the corn- 
fields, 

Draw a magic circle round them, 

To protect them from destruction, 

Blast of mildew, blight of insect, 

Wagemin, the thief of cornfields, 

Paimosaid, who steals the maize. 
ear ! 41 

‘In the night, when all is silence, 

In the night, when all is darkness, 

When the Spirit of Sleep, Nepah- 
win, 

Shuts the doors of all the wig- 
wains, 

So that not an ear can hear you, 

So that not an eye can see you, 

Rise up from your bed in silence, 

Lay aside your garments wholly, 


Walk around the ‘fields you 
planted, 50 
Round the borders of the corn- 


fields, 

Covered by your tresses only, 

Robed with darkness as a gar- 
ment. 

‘Thus the fields shall be more 

fruitful, 

And the passing of your footsteps 

Draw a magic circle round them, 

So that neither blight nor mildew, 

Neither burrowing worm nor in, 
sect, 

Shall pass o’er the magic circle ;: 

Not the dragon-fly, Kwo-ne-she, 60 

Nor the spider, Subbekashe, 

Nor the grasshopper, Pah-puk- 
keena, 

Nor the mighty caterpillar, 

Way-muk-kwana, with the bear- 
skin, ; 

King of all the caterpillars!’ 

On the tree-tops near the cortr 

fields 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





Sat the hungry crows and ravens, 

Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 

With his band of black marauders. 

And they laughed at Hiawatha, 70 

Till the tree-tops shook with 
laughter, 

With their melancholy laughter, 

At the words of Hiawatha. 

‘Hear him!’ said they; ‘hear the 
Wise Man, 

Hear the plots of Hiawatha!’ 

When the noiseless night de- 

scended 

Broad and dark o’er field and for- 
est, 

When the mournful Wawonaissa 

Sorrowing sang among the hem- 
locks, 79 

And the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, 

Shut the doors of all the wigwams, 


From her bed rose Laughing 


Water, 

Laid aside her garments wholly, 

And with darkness clothed and 
guarded, 

Unashamed and unaffrighted, 

Walked securely round the corn- 
fields, 

Drew the sacred, magic circle 

Of her footprints round the corn- 
fields. 

No one but the Midnight only 
Saw her beauty in the darkness, 
No one but the Wawonaissa gt 
Heard the panting of her bosom ; 
Guskewau, the darkness, wrapped 

her 
Closely in his sacred mantle, 
So that none might see her beauty, 
So that none might boast, ‘I saw 
her!’ 
On the morrow, as the day 
dawned, 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
Gathered all his black marauders, 
Crows and blackbirds, jays and 
Tavens, 100 
Clamorous on the dusky tree-tops, 
And descended, fast and fearless, 
On the fields of Hiawatha, 
On the grave of the Mondamin. 


ISI 


‘We will drag Mondamin,’ said 
they, 
‘From the, grave where he is 
buried, 
Spite of all the magic circles 
Laughing Water draws around it, 
Spite of all the sacred footprints 
Minnehaha stamps upon it!? 110 
But the wary Hiawatha, 
Ever thoughtful, careful, watch- 
ful, 
Had o’erheard the scornful laugh- 
ten 
When they mocked him from the 
tree-tops. 
‘Kaw!’ he said, ‘my friends the 
ravens! 
Kahgahgee, my King of Ravens! 
I will teach you all a lesson 
That shall not be soon forgotten !’ 
He had risen before the day- 
break, 
He had spread o’er all the corn- 
fields 120 
Snares to catch the black maray 
ders, 
And was lying now in ambush 
In the neighboring grove of pine 
trees, 
Waiting for the crows and black 
birds, 
Waiting for the jays and ravens. 
Soon they came with caw ané 
clamor, 
Rush of wings and ery of voices, 
To their work of devastation, 
Settling down upon the cornfields, 
Delving deep with beak and talon, 
For the body of Mondamin. 131 
And with all their craft and cun- 
ning, 
All their skill in wiles of warfare, 
They perceived no danger near 
them, 
Till their claws became entangled, 
Till they found themselves impris- 
oned 
In the snares of Hiawatha. 
From his place of ambush came 
he, 
Striding terrible among them, 


182 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





And so awful was his aspect 140 

That the bravest quailed with ter- 
ror. 

Without mercy he destroyed them 

Right and left, by tens and twen- 
ties, 

And their wretched, lifeless bodies 

Hung aloft on poles for scarecrows 

Round the consecrated cornfields, 

AS a Signal of his vengeance, 

AS a warning to marauders. 

Only Kahgahgee, the leader, 
Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 
He alone was spared among them 
As a hostage for his people. 152 
With his prisoner-string he bound 

him, 
Led him captive to his wigwam, 
Tied him fast with cords of elm- 
bark 
To the ridge-pole of his wigwam. 

‘Kahgahgee, my raven!’ said he, 
‘You the leader of the robbers, 
You the plotter of this mischief, 
The contriver of this outrage, 160 
I will keep you, I will hold you, 
As a hostage for your people, 

As a pledge of good behavior!’ 

And he left him, grim and sulky, 
Sitting in the morning sunshine 
On the summit of the wigwam, 
Croaking fiercely his displeasure, 
Flapping his great sable pinions, 
Vainly struggling for his freedom, 


Vainly calling on his people! 170 
Summer passed, and Shawonda- 
see 
Breathed his sighs o’er all the 
landseape, 
From the South-land sent his ar- 
dors, 


Wafted kisses warm and tender ; 

And the maize-field grew and rip- 
ened, 

Till it stood in all the splendor 

Of its garments green and yellow, 

Of its tassels and its plumage, 

And the maize-ears full and shin- 
ing 

Gleamed from bursting sheaths of 
verdure. 180 





Then Nokomis, the old woman, 
Spake, and said to Minnehaha: 
“’T is the Moon when leaves are 

falling ; 
All the wild rice has been gath- 
ered, 
And the maize is ripe and ready ; 
Let us gather in the harvest, 
Let us wrestle with Mondamin, 
Strip him of his plumes and tas- 


sels, 
Of his garments green and yel- 
low!? 
And the merry Laughing Wa- 
Le 190 


Went rejoicing from the wigwam, 

With Nokomis, old and wrinkled, 

And they called the women round 
them, 

Called the young men and the 
maidens, 

To the harvest of the cornfields, 

To the husking of the maize-ear. 

On the border of the forest, 

Underneath the fragrant pine: 
trees, 

Sat the old men and the warriors 

Smoking in the pleasant shadow. 

In uninterrupted silence 201 

Looked they at the gamesome la- 
bor 

Of the young men and the women; 

Listened to their noisy talking, 

To their laughter and their sing- 


Ing, 

Heard them chattering like .the 
magpies, 

Heard them laughing like the blue- 
jays, 

Heard them singing like the rob- 
ins. 

And whene’er some lucky maid- 

en 


Found a red ear in the husking, 210 

Found a maize-ear red as blood 
is, 

‘Nushka!’ eried they all together, 

‘Nushka! you shall have a sweet- 
heart, 

You shall have a handsome hus 
band !? 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


183 





‘Ugh!’ the old men all responded 
T’'rom their seats beneath the pine- 
trees. 
And whene’er a youth or maiden 
Found a crooked ear in husking, 
Found a maize-ear in the husk- 


ing 

Blighted, mildewed, or _  mis- 
shapen, 220 

Then they laughed and sang to- 
gether, 

Crept and limped about the corn- 
fields, 

Mimicked in their gait and ges- 
tures 


Some old man, bent almost double, 

Singing singly or together: 

* Wagemin, the thief of cornfields: 

Paimosaid, who steals the maize- 
ear!? 

Till the cornfields rang with 

laughter, 

Till from Hiawatha’s wigwam 

Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 230 

Screamed and quivered in his an- 
ger, 

And from all the neighboring tree- 
tops 

Cawed and croaked the black ma- 
rauders. 

‘Ugh !’ the old men all responded, 

From their seats beneath the pine- 
trees! 


XIV 
PICTURE-WRITING 


IN those days said Hiawatha, 

‘Lo! how all things fade and per- 
ish! 

From the memory of the old men 

Pass away the great traditions, 

The achievements of the warriors, 

The adventures of the hunters, 

All the wisdom of the Medas, 

All the craft of the Wabenos, 

All the marvellous dreams and 
visions 

Of the Jossakeeds, the Prophets! 10 


‘Great men die and are forgot- 
' ten, 
Wise men speak; their words of 
wisdom 
Perish in the ears that hear them, 
Do not reach the generations 
That, as yet unborn, are waiting 
In the great, mysterious darkness 
Of the speechless days that shall 
be! 
‘On the grave-posts of our fa- 
thers 
Are no signs, no figures painted ; 
Who are in those graves we know 
not, 20 
Only know they are our fathers. 
Of what kith they are and kindred, 
From what old, ancestral Totem, 
Be it Eagle, Bear, or Beaver, 
They descended, this we know not, 
Only know they are our fathers. 
‘Face to face we speak together, 
But we cannot speak when absent, 
Cannot send our voices from us 
To the friends that dwell afar 
off ; 30 
Cannot send a secret message, » 
But the bearer learns our secret, 
May pervert it, may betray it, 
May reveal it unto others.’ 
Thus said Hiawatha, walking 
In the solitary forest, 
Pondering, musing in the forest, 
On the welfare of his people. 
From his pouch he took his col- 


ors, 

Took his paints of different col- 
ors, 40 

On the smooth bark of a birch- 
tree 


Painted many shapes and figures, 

Wonderful and mystic figures, 

And each figure had a meaning, 

Each some word or thought sug- 
gested. 

Gitche Manito the Mighty, 
He,the Master of Life, was painted 
AS an egg, with points projecting 
To the four winds of the heavens, 
Everywhere is the Great Spirit, 50 
Was the meaning of this symbol. 


184 





Mitche Manito the Mighty, 
He the dreadful Spirit of Evil, 
AS a serpent was depicted, 
As Kenabeek, the great serpent. 
Very crafty, very cunning, 
Is the creeping Spirit of Evil, 
Was the meaning of this symbol. 
Life and Death he drew as cir- 


cles, 
Life was white, but Death was 
darkened ; 60 


Sunand moon and stars he painted, 
Man and beast, and fish and rep- 
tile, 
Forests, mountains, 
rivers. 
For the earth he drew a straight 
line, 
For the sky a bow above it; 
White the space between for day- 
time, 
Filled with little stars for night- 
time ; 
On the left a point for sunrise, 
On the right a point for sunset, 
On the top a point for noontide, 7o 
And for rain and cloudy weather 
Waving lines descending from it. 
Footprints pointing towards a 
wigwam 
Were a Sign of invitation, 
Were a sign of guests assembling ; 
Bloody hands with palms uplifted 
Were a symbol of destruction, 
Were a hostile sign and symbol. 
All these things did Hiawatha 
Show unto his wondering people, 80 
And interpreted their meaning, 
And he said: ‘ Behold, your grave- 
posts 
Have no mark, no sign, nor sym- 
bol, 
Goand paint them all with figures ; 
Each one with its household sym- 
bol, 
With its own ancestral Totem ; 
So that those who follow after 
May distinguish them and know 
them.’ 
And they painted on the grave- 
posts 


lakes, and 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


— 


On the graves yet unforgotten, 90 
Each his own ancestral Totem, 


| Each the symbol of his household; 


Figures of the Bear and Reindeer, 
Of the Turtle, Crane, and Beaver, 
Each inverted as a token 
That the owner was departed, 
That the chief who bore the sym- 
bol 
Lay beneath in dust and ashes. 
And the Jossakeeds, the Pro- 
phets, 
The Wabenos, the Magicians, 100 
And the Medicine-men, the Medas, 
Painted upon bark and deer-skin 
Figures for the songs they chanted, 
For each song a separate symbol, 
Figures mystical and awful, 
Figures strange and brightly col- 
ored; 

And each figure had its meaning, 
Each some magic song suggested. 
The Great Spirit, the Creator, 
Flashing light through all the hea- 

ven; 11o 
The Great Serpent, the Kenabeek, 
With his bloody crest erected, 
Creeping, looking into heaven; 
In the sky the sun, that listens, 
And the moon eclipsed and dying; 
Owl and eagle, crane and hen- 
hawk, 
And the cormorant, bird of magic; 
Headless men, that walk the hea- 
vens, 
Bodies lying pierced with arrows, 
Bloody hands of death uplifted, 120 
Flags on graves, and great war- 


captains 

Grasping both the earth and hea; 
ven! 

Such as these the shapes they 

painted 

On the birch-bark and the deer 
skin ; 

Songs of war and songs of hunt 
ing, 


Songs of medicine and of magic, 

All were written in these figures, 
For each figure had its meaning, 
Each its separate song recorded. 


i 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


185 





Nor forgotten was the Love- 

Song, 130 

The most subtle of all medicines, 

The most potent spell of magic, 

Dangerous more than war or hunt- 
ing! 

Thus the Love-Song was recorded, 

Symbol and interpretation. 

First a human figure standing, 
Painted in the brightest scarlet; 
‘T is the lover, the musician, 

And the meaning is, ‘ My painting 

Makes me powerful over oth- 
ers? 140 
Then the figure seated, singing, 

Playing on a drum of magic, 

And the interpretation, ‘ Listen! 

*Tis my voice you hear, my sing- 

ing!? 

Then the same red figure seated 
In the shelter of a wigwam, 

And the meaning of the symbol, 

‘TI will come and sit beside you 

In the mystery of my passion!’ 

Then two figures, man and wo- 

man, 150 

Standing hand in hand together 

With their hands so clasped to- 
gether 

That they seemed in one united, 

And the words thus represented 

Are, ‘I see your heart within you, 

And your cheeks are red with 
blushes!’ 

Next the maiden on an island, 
In the centre of an island ; 

And the song this shape sug- 


gested 
Was,‘ Though you were at a dis- 
tance, 160 


Were upon some far-off island, 

Such the spell I cast upon you, 

Such the magic power of passion, 

I could straightway draw you to 
me!? 

Then the figure of the maiden 
Sleeping, and the lover near her, 
Whispering to her in her slum. 

bers, 
Saying, ‘ Though you were far from 
me 


In the land of Sleep and Silence, 
Still the voice of love would reach 


you!? 

And the last of all the figures 
Was a heart within a circle, 
Drawn within a magic circle; 
And the image had this meaning: 
‘Naked lies your heart before me, 
To your naked heart I whisper!? 

Thus it was that Hiawatha, 

In his wisdom, taught the people 

All the mysteries of painting, 

All the art of Picture-Writing, 180 

On the smooth bark of the birely 
tree, 

On the white skin of the reindeer, 

On the grave-posts of the village. 


170 


XV 
HIAWATHA’S LAMENTATION 


IN those days the Evil Spirits, 

All the Manitos of mischief, 
Fearing Hiawatha’s wisdom, 

And his love for Chibiabos, 
Jealous of their faithful friend- 


ship, 

And their noble words and ac- 
tions, 

Made at length a league against 
them, 


To molest them and destroy them, 
Hiawatha, wise and wary, 
Often said to Chibiabos, 10 
‘O my brother! do not leave me, 
Lest the Evil Spirits harm you!’ 
Chibiabos, young and heedless, 
Laughing shook his coal - black 
tresses, 
Answered ever sweet and child- 
like, 
‘Do not fear for me, O brother! 
Harm and evil come not near 
me!’ 
Once when Peboan, the Winter, 
Roofed with ice the Big-Sea-Wa- 
ter, 
When the snow- flakes, whirling: 
downward, 20 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





186 

Hissed among the withered oak- 
leaves, 

Changed the pine-trees into wig- 
wams, 

Covered all the earth with  si- 
lence, — 


Armed with arrows, shod with 
snow-shoes, 

Heeding not his brother’s warn- 
ing, 

Fearing not the Evil Spirits, 

Forth to hunt the deer with ant- 
lers 

All alone went Chibiabos. 

Right across the Big-Sea-Wa- 


ter 

Sprang with speed the deer before 
him. 30 

With the wind and snow he fol- 
lowed, 

O’er the treacherous ice he fol- 
lowed, 

Wild with all the fierce commo- 
tion 


And the rapture of the hunting. 
But beneath, the Evil Spirits 
Lay in ambush, waiting for him, 
Broke the treacherous ice beneath 
him, 
Dragged him downward to the bot- 
tom, 
Buried in the sand his body. 
Unktahee, the god of water, 40 
He the god of the Dacotahs, 
Drowned him in the deep abysses 
Of the lake of Gitche Gumee. 
From the headlands Hiawatha 
Sent forth such a wail of anguish, 
Such a fearful lamentation, 
That the bison paused to listen, 
And the wolves howled from the 
prairies, 
And the thunder in the distance 
Starting answered ‘ Baim-wawa !’ 
Then his face with black he 


painted, 51 
With his robe his head he cov- 
ered, 


In his wigwam sat lamenting, 
Seven long weeks he sat lament- 
ing, 


Uttering still this moan of sor. 
row :— 
‘He is dead, the sweet musi- 
cian! 
He the sweetest of all singers! 
He has gone from us forever, 
He has moved a little nearer 
To the Master of all music, 60 
To the Master of all singing! 
O my brother, Chibiabos!’ 
And the melancholy fir-trees 
Waved their dark green fans above 
him, 
Waved their purple cones above 
him, 
Sighing with him to console him, 
Mingling with his lamentation 
Their complaining, their lament- 
ing. 
Came the Spring, and all the 
forest 
Looked in vain for Chibiabos; 70a 
Sighed the rivulet, Sebowisha, 
Sighed the rushes in the meadow. 
From the tree-tops sang the blue- 
bird, 
Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, 
*Chibiabos! Chibiabos! 
He is dead, the sweet musician!’ 
From the wigwam sang the 
robin, 
Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
‘Chibiabos ! Chibiabos! 
He is dead, the sweetest sing- 
er!? 
And at night through all the for- 
est 81 
Went the whippoorwill complain- 
ing, 
Wailing went the Wawonaissa, 
‘Chibiabos! Chibiabos! 
He is dead, the sweet musician! 
He the sweetest of all singers!’ 
Then the Medicine- men, the 
Medas, 
The magicians, the Wabenos, 
And the Jossakeeds, the Pro. 
phets, 
Came to visit Hiawatha; % 
Built a Sacred Lodge beside him, 


‘To appease him, to console him, 


THE SONG 


OF HIAWATHA 


187 





Walked in silent, grave proces- 
sion, 

Bearing each a pouch of healing, 

Skin of beaver, lynx, or otter, 

Filled with magic roots and sim- 
ples, 

Filled with very potent medicines. 

When he heard their steps ap- 

proaching, 

Hiawatha ceased lamenting, 

Called no more on Chibiabos; 100 

Naught he questioned, naught he 
answered, 

But his mournful head uncovered, 

From his face the mourning col- 
ors 

Washed he slowly and in silence, 

Slowly and in silence followed 

Onward to the Sacred Wigwam. 

There a magic drink they gave 

him, 

Made of Nahma-wusk, the spear- 
mint, 

And Wabeno-wusk, the yarrow, 

Roots of power, and herbs of heal- 


ing 3 IIo 
Beat their drums, and shook their 
rattles ; 


Chanted singly and in chorus, 
Mystic songs like these, they 
chanted. 
‘I myself, myself! behold me! 
*Tis the great Gray Eagle talk- 
Ing ; 
Come, ye white crows, come and 
hear him! 
The loud-speaking thunder helps 
me; 
All the unseen spirits help me; 
I can hear their voices calling, 
All around the sky I hear them! 
I can blow you strong, my bro- 
ther, 121 
I can heal you, Hiawatha!’ 
*Hi-au-ha!’ replied the chorus, 
“Way-ha-way!’ the mystic cho- 
rus. 
* Friends of mine are all the ser- 
pents! 
Hear me shake my skin of hen- 
hawk! 


Mahng, the white loon, I can kill 
him; 
I can shoot your heart and kill it! 
I can blow you strong, my bro- 
ther, 
I can heal you, Hiawatha !’ 130 
*Hi-au-ha!’ replied the chorus. 
*Way-ha-way !’ the mystic chorus. 
‘I myself, myself! the prophet! 
When I speak the wigwam trem- 
bles, 
Shakes the Sacred Lodge with ter- 
ror, 
Hands unseen begin to shake it! 
When I walk, the sky I tread on 
Bends and makes a noise beneath 
me! 
I can blow you strong, my bro- 
ther ! 

Rise and speak, O Hiawatha !? 140 
*Hi-au-ha !’ replied the chorus, 
*Way-ha-way!? the mystic chorus. 

Then they shook their medicine- 

pouches 

Over the head of Hiawatha, 

Danced their medicine - dance 
around him ; 

And upstarting wild and haggard, 

Like a man from dreams awak- 
ened, 

He was healed of all his madness. 

As the clouds are swept from hea- 


ven, 
Straightway from his brain de- 
parted 150 


All his moody melancholy ; 

As the ice is swept from rivers, 

Straightway from his heart de- 
parted 

All his sorrow and affliction. 

Then they summoned Chibiabos 

From his grave beneath the wa- 
ters, 

From the sands of Gitche Gumee 

Summoned Hiawatha’s brother. 

And so mighty was the magic 

Of that ery and invocation, 160 

That he heard it as he lay there 

Underneath the Big-Sea-Water ; 

From the sand he rose and lis- 
tened, 


188 





Heard the musie and the singing, 

Came, obedient to the summons, 

To the doorway of the wigwam, 

But to enter they forbade him. 

Through a chink a coal they gave 

him, 

Through the door a burning fire- 
brand; 

Ruler in the Land of Spirits, 170 

Ruler o’er the dead, they made 
him, 

Telling him a fire to kindle 

For all those that died thereaf- 
cer, 

Camp-fires for their night encamp- 
ments 

On their solitary journey 

To the kingdom of Ponemah, 

To the land of the Hereafter. 

From the village of his child- 

hood, 

From the homes of those who 
knew him, 

Passing. silent through the for- 


est, 180 
Like a smoke-wreath wafted side- 
ways, 


Slowly vanished Chibiabos! 

Where he passed, the branches 
moved not, 

‘Where he trod, the grasses bent 
not, 

And the fallen leaves of last year 

Made no sound beneath his foot- 
steps. 

Four whole days he journeyed 

onward 

Down the pathway of the dead 
men; 

On the dead-man’s strawberry 
feasted, 

Crossed the melancholy river, 1:90 

On the swinging log he crossed it, 

Came unto the Lake of Silver, 

In the Stone Canoe was carried 

To the Islands of the Blessed, 

To the land of ghosts and shad- 
Ows. 

On that journey, moving slowly, 
Many weary spirits saw he, 
Panting under heavy burdens, 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





Laden with war-clubs, bows and 
arrows, 

Robes of fur, and pots and ket. 
tles, 200 

And with food that friends had 
given 

For that solitary journey. 

‘Ay! why do the living,’ said 

they, 

‘Lay such heavy burdens on us! 

Better were it to go naked, 

Better were it to go fasting, 

Than to bear such heavy burdens 

On our long and weary journey !? 

Forth then issued Hiawatha, 

Wandered eastward, wandered 
westward, 210 

Teaching men the use of simples 

And the antidotes for poisons, 

And the cure of all diseases. 

Thus was first made known to 
mortals 

All the mystery of Medamin, 

All the sacred art of healing. 


XVI 
PAU-PUK-KEEWIS 


You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Kee. 
wis, 

He, the handsome Yenadizze, 

Whom the people called the Storm. 
Fool, 

Vexed the village with disturb- 
ance ; 

You shall hear of all his mischief, 

And his flight from Hiawatha, 

And his wondrous transmigra- 
tions, 

And the end of his adventures. 

On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, 1a 
By the shining Big-Sea-Water 
Stood the lodge of Pau-Puk-Kea 

wis. 
It was he who in his frenzy 
Whirled these drifting sands to 
gether, 
On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, 





THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


= 


When, among the guests assem- 
bled, 
He so merrily and madly 
Danced at Hiawatha’s wedding, 
Danced the Beggar’s Dance to 
please them. 
Now, in search of new adven- 


tures, 20 
From his lodge went Pau-Puk- 
Keewis, 


Came with speed into the village, 

Found the young men all assem- 
bled 

In the lodge of old Iagoo, 

Listening to his monstrous stories, 

To his wonderful adventures. 

He was telling them the story 
Of Ojeeg, the Summer-Maker, 
How he made a hole jn heaven, 
How he climbed up into heaven, 30 
And let out the summer-weather, 
The perpetual, pleasant Summer ; 
How the Otter first essayed it; 
How the Beaver, Lynx, and Bad- 

ger 
Tried in turn the great achieve- 
ment, 


From the summit of the mountain» 


Smote their fists against the hea- 
vens, 
Smote against the sky their fore- 
heads, 
Cracked the sky, but could not 
break it; 
How the Wolverine, uprising, 40 
Made him ready for the encounter, 
bent his knees down, like a squir- 
rel, 
Drew his arms back, like acricket. 
‘Once he leaped,’ said old Ia- 
£00, 
Once he leaped, and lo! above 
| him 
_ Sent the sky, as ice in rivers 
When the waters rise beneath it; 
Twice he leaped, and lo! above 
| him 
Cracked the sky, as ice in rivers 
When the freshet is at highest! so 
Shrice he leaped, and lo! above 
him 





189 


Broke the shattered sky asunder, 
And he disappeared within it, 
And Ojeeg, the Fisher Weasel, 
With a bound weut in behind 
him !? 
‘Hark you!’ shouted Pau-Puk- 
Keewis 
As he entered at the doorway; 
‘T am tired of all this talking, 
Tired of old Iagoo’s stories, 
Tired of Hiawatha’s wisdom. 60 
Here is something to amuse you, 
Better than this endless talking.’ 
Then from out his pouch of wolf. 
skin 
Forth he drew, with solemn man- 
ner, 
All the game of Bowl and Coun- 
ters, 
Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces. 
White on one side were they 
painted, 
And vermilion on the other ; f 
Two Kenabeeks or great serpents, 
Two Ininewug or wedge-men, 70 
One great war-club, Pugamauguy, 
And one slender fish, the Keego, 
Four round pieces, Ozawabeeks, 
And three Sheshebwug or duck- 
lings, 
All were made of bone and painted, 
All except the Ozawabeeks ; 
These were brass, on one side 
burnished, 
And were black upon the other. 
In a wooden bowl he placed 
them, 79 
Shook and jostled them together, 
Threw them on the ground before 
him, 
Thus exclaiming and explaining: 
‘Red side up are all the pieces, 
And one great Kenabeek stand- 
ing 
On the bright side of a brass 
piece, 
On a burnished Ozawabeek;: 
Thirteen tens and eight are 
counted.’ 
Then again he shook the pieces. 


‘Shook and jostled them together, 





190 THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 
: eee rere ee eet 
Threw them on the ground before | Warlike weapons, pipes and 
him, go pouches. 


Still exclaiming and explaining: 
‘White are both the great Kena- 


beeks, 

White the Ininewug, the wedge- 
men, 

Red are all the other pieces; 

Five tens and an eight are 
counted. 

Thus he taught the game of 

hazard, 

Thus displayed it and explained 
it, 

Running through its various 
chances, 

Various changes, various mean- 
ings: 

Twenty curious eyes stared at 
him, 100 


Full of eagerness stared at him. 
‘Many games,’ said old Iagoo, 

*Many games of skill and hazard 

Have I seen in different nations, 

Have I played in different coun- 
tries. 

He who plays with old Iagoo 

Must have very nimble fingers ; 

Though you think yourself so skil- 
ful, 

I can beat you, Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

I can even give you lessons 110 

In your game of Bowl and Count- 
ers)! 

So they sat and played together, 

All the old men and the young 
men. 

Played for dresses, weapons, wam- 
pum, 

Played till midnight, played till 
morning, 

Played until the Yenadizze, 

Till the cunning Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis, 

Df their treasures had despoiled 
them. - 

Of the best of all their dresses, 

Shirts of deer-skin, robes of er- 


mine, 120 
Belts of wampum, crests of fea- 
thers, 


Twenty eyes glared wildly at him, 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at 
him. 

Said the lucky Pau-Puk-Keewis: 
‘In my wigwam I am lonely, 

In my wanderings and adventures 

I have need of a companion, 

Fain would have a Meshinauwa, 

An attendant and pipe-bearer. 13¢ 

I will venture all these winnings, 

All these garments heaped about 
me, 

All this wampum, all these fea. 
thers, 

On a Single throw will venture 

All against the young man yon. 
deri? ty 

’T was a youth of sixteen sum: 
mers, 

*T was a nephew of Iagoo; 

Face-in-a-Mist, the people called 
him. 

As the fire burns in a pipe-head 
Dusky red beneath the ashes, 14a 
So beneath his shaggy eyebrows 
Glowed the eyes of old Iagoo. 
‘Ugh!’ he answered very fiercely; 
‘Ugh!’ they answered all and 

each one. 

Seized the wooden bowl! the old 

man, 
Closely in his bony fingers 
Clutched the fatal bowl, Onagon, 
Shook it fiercely and with fury, 
Made the pieces ring together 
As he threw them down before 


him. 150 
Red were both the great Kena- 
beeks, 


Red the Ininewug, the wedge-men, 

Red the Sheshebwug, the duck- 
lings, 

Black the four brass Ozawabeeks, 

White alone the fish, the Keego; 

Only five the pieces counted ! 

Then the smiling Pau-Puk-Kee 

wis 

Shook the bowl and threw thé 
pieces; 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


See 


Lightly in the air he tossed them, 
And they fell about him scat- 
tered ; 160 
Dark and bright the Ozawabeeks, 
Red and white the other pieces, 
And upright among the others 
One Ininewug was standing, 
Even as crafty Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Stood alone among the players, 
Saying, ‘ Five tens! mine the game 


is!? 
Twenty eyes glared at him 
fiercely, 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at 
him, 
As he turned and left the wig- 
wam, 170 


¥ollowed by his Meshinauwa, 

By the nephew of Iagoo, 

By the tall and graceful stripling, 

Bearing in his arms the winnings, 

Shirts of deer-skin, robes of er- 
mine, 

Belts of wampum, pipes and weap- 
ons. 

‘Carry them,’ said Pau-Puk-Kee- 

wis, 

Pointing with his fan of feathers, 
To my wigwam far to eastward, 
On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo!’ 

Hot and red with smoke and 
gambling 181 
Were the eyes of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
As he came forth to the freshness 
Of the pleasant Summer morning. 
All the birds were singing gayly, 
All the streamlets flowing swiftly, 
And the heart of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Sang with pleasure as the birds 
sing, 
Beat with triumph like the stream- 
lets, 
As he wandered through the vil- 
lage, 190 
In the early gray of morning, 
With his fan of turkey-feathers, 
With his plumes and tufts of 
Swan’s down, 
Till he reached the farthest wig- 
wam, 
Keached the lodge of Hiawatha. 











1gt 





Silent was it and deserted ; 

No one met him at the doorway, 

No one came to bid him welcome; 

But the birds were singing round 
its 

In and out and round the door- 
way, 200 

Hopping, singing, fluttering, feed- 
ing, 

And aloft upon the ridge-pole 

Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, 

Sat with fiery eyes, and, scream. 


ing, 
Flapped his wings at Pau-Puk- 
Keewis. 
‘All are gone! the lodge is 
empty !’ 
Thus it was spake Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis, 


In his heart resolving mischief ; — 
“Gone is wary Hiawatha, 
Gone the silly Laughing Water, 210 
Gone Nokomis, the old woman, 
And the lodge is left unguarded!’ 
By the neck he seized the raven, 
Whirled it round him like a rai ‘le, 
Like a medicine-pouch he shook it, 
Strangled Kahgahgee, the raven, 
From the ridge-pole of the wig: 
wam 
Left its lifeless body hanging, 
AS an insult to its master, 
As a taunt to Hiawatha. 220 
With a stealthy step he entered, 
Round the lodge in wild disorder 
Threw the household things about 
him, 
Piled together in confusion 
Bowls of wood and earthen ket. 
tles, 
Robes of buffalo and beaver, 
Skins of otter, lynx, and ermine, 
As an insult to Nokomis, 
As a taunt to Minnehaha. 
Then departed Pau- Puk- Kee. 


wis, 230 
Whistling, singing through the for- 
est, 


Whistling gayly to the squirrels, 
Who from hollow boughs above 
him 


192 


Dropped their acorn-shells upon 
him, 

Singing gayly to the wood birds, 

Who from out the leafy darkness 

Answered witha song as merry. 

Then he climbed the rocky head- 

lands, 

Looking o’er the Gitche Gumee, 

Perched himself upon their sum- 
init, 240 

Waiting full of mirthand mischief 

The return of Hiawatha. 

Stretched upon his back he lay 

there; 

Far below him plashed the waters, 

Plashed and washed the dreamy 
waters ; 

Far above him swam the heavens, 

Swam the dizzy, dreamy heavens; 

Round him hovered, fluttered, rus- 
tled 

Hiawatha’s mountain chickens, 

Flock- wise swept and wheeled 
about him, 250 

Almost brushed him with their 


pinions. 
And he killed them as he lay 

there, 

Slaughtered them by tens and 
twenties, 

Threw their bodies down the head- 
land, : 

Threw them on the beach below 
him, 

Till at length Kayoshk, the sea- 
gull, 


Perched upon a crag above them, 
Shouted: * It is Pau-Puk-Keewis! 
He is slaying us by hundreds! 
Senda message to our brother, 260 
Tidings send to Hiawatha!’ 


XVII 


THE HUNTING OF PAU-PUK- 
KEEWIS 


FULL of wrath was Hiawatha 
When he came into the village, 
Found the people in confusion, 





THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


—— er 


Heard of all the misdemeanors, 

All the malice and the mischief, 

Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

Hard his breath came through 

his nostrils, 

Through his teeth he buzzed and 
muttered 

Words of anger and resentment, 

Hot and humming, like a_hor- 
net. Ie 

‘TI will slay this Pau-Puk-Keewis, 

Slay this mischief-maker !’ said he. 

‘Not so long and wide the world 
is, 

Not so rude and rough the way is, 

That my wrath shall not attain 
him, 

That. my vengeance 
reach him!’ 

Then in swift pursuit departed 
Hiawatha and the hunters 
On the trail of Pau-Puk-Keewis, 


shall no, 


Through the forest, where he 
passed it, 20 

To the headlands where he 
rested; 

But they found not Pau-Puk-Kee. 
wis, 


Only in the trampled grasses, 

In the whortleberry-bushes, 

Found the couch where he had 
rested, 

Found the impress of his body. 

From the lowlands far beneath 

them, 

From the Muskoday, the meadow, 

Pau- Puk-Keewis, turning back- 
ward, 

Made a gesture of defiance, 3a 

Made a gesture of derision; 

And aloud eried Hiawatha, 

From the summit of the moun 
tains: 

‘ Not so long and wide the world is 

Not so rude and rough the way is, 

But my wrath shall overtake you 

And my vengeance shall attain 
you!’ 

Over rock and over river, 

Thorough bush, and brake, and for 

est, 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


193 





Ran the cunning Pau- Puk - Kee- 
wis; 40 

Like an antelope he bounded, 

Till he came unto a streamlet 

In the middle of the forest, 

To a Sstreamlet still and tranquil, 

That had overflowed its margin, 

To a dam made by the beavers, 

To a pond of quiet water, 

Where knee-deep the trees were 
standing, 

Where the water-lilies floated, 


Where the rushes waved pe 
whispered. 

On the dam stood Pau-Puk- He 
wis, 

On the dam of trunks and 
branches, 

Through whose chinks the water 
spouted, 

Over whose summit flowed the 
streamlet. 


From the bottom rose the beaver, 
Looked with two great eyes of 


wonder, 

Eyes that seemed to ask a ques- 
tion, 

At the stranger, Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis. 

On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Kee- 

wis, 

O’er his ankles flowed the stream- 
let, 60 

Flowed the bright and silvery 
water, 


And he spake unto the beaver, 
With a smile he spake in this 
wise: 
‘O my friend Ahmeek, the 
beaver, 
Cool and pleasant is the water; 
Let me dive into the water, 
Let me rest there in your lodges; 
Change me, too, into a beaver!’ 
Cautiously replied the beaver, 
With reserve he thus made an- 
swer: 70 
‘Let me first consult the others, 
Let me ask the other beavers.’ 
Down he sank into the water, 
Heavily sank he, as a stone sinks, 


Down among the leaves and 
branches, 
Brown and matted at the bottom. 


On the dam stood Pau-Puk-Kee- 


wis, 

O’er his ankles flowed the stream- 
let, 

Spouted through the chinks below 
him, 

Dashed upon the stones beneath 
him, 80 

Spread serene and calm before 
him, 


And the sunshine and the shadows 

Fell in flecks and gleams upon 
him, 

Fell in little shining patches, 


Through the waving, rustling 
branches. 
From the bottom rose the bea- 


vers, 
Silently above the surface 
Rose one head and then another, 
Till the pond seemed full of bea- 
vers, 
Full of black and shining faces. 90 
To the beavers Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Spakeentreating, said in this wise: 
“Very pleasant is your dwelling, 
O my friends! and safe from dan: 
ger; 
Can you not, with all your cunning, 
All your wisdom and contrivance, 
Change me, too, into a beaver?’ 
‘Yes!’ replied Ahmeek, the bea- 
ver, 
He the King of all the beavers, 
‘Let yourself slide down among 
us, 100 
Down into the tranquil water.’ 
Down into the pond among them 
Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis ; 
Black became his shirt of deer- 
skin, 
his 
gings, 
In a broad black tail behind him 
Spread his fox-tails and his fringes; 
He was changed into a beaver. 
“Make me large,’ said Pau-Puk 
Keewis, 


lack moccasins and leg- 


194 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





‘Make me large and make me 


larger, 

Larger than the other beavers.’ 
‘Yes,’ the beaver chief responded, 
‘When our lodge below you enter, 
In our wigwam we will make you 
Ten times larger than the others.’ 

Thus into the clear, brown water 
Silently sank Pau-Puk-Keewis : 
Found the bottom covered over 
With the trunks of trees and 


IIo 


branches, 

Hoards of food against the win 
ter, 120 

Piles and heaps against the fam- 
ine; 

Found the lodge with arching 


doorway, 
Leading into spacious chambers. 
Here they made him large and 
larger, 
Made him largest of the beavers, 
Ten times larger than the others. 
‘You shall be our ruler,’ said they; 
* Chief and King of all the beavers.’ 
But not long had Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis 
Sat in state among the beavers, 130 
When there came a voice of warn- 
ing 
From the watchman at his station 
In the water-flags and lilies, 
Saying, ‘ Here is Hiawatha! 
Hiawatha with his hunters!’ 
Then they heard a ery above 
them, 
Heard a shouting and a tramping, 
Heard a crashing and a rushing, 
And the water round and o’er them 
Sank and sucked away in eddies, 
And they knew their dam was 
broken. I4I 
On the lodge’s roof the hunters 
Leaped, and broke it all asunder ; 
Streamed the sunshine through the 
crevice, 
Sprang the beavers through the 
doorway, 
Hid themselves in deeper water, 
In the channel of the streamlet ; 
But the mighty Pau-Puk-Keewis 


Could not pass beneath the door 


way; 
He was puffed with pride and feed- 
ing, 159 


He was swollen like a bladder. 
Through the roof looked Hia- 
watha, 
Cried aloud, ‘O Pau-Puk-Keewis! 
Vain are all your craft and cun- 
ning, 
Vain your manifold disguises! 
Well I know you, Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis!? 
With their clubs they beat and 
bruised him, 
Beat to death poor Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis, f 
Pounded him as maize is pounded, 
Till his skull was crushed to 
pieces. 160 
Six tall hunters, lithe and limber, 
Bore him home on poles and 
branches, 
Bore the body of the beaver ; 
3ut the ghost, the Jeebi in him, 
Thought and felt as Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis, 
Still lived on as Pau-Puk-Keewis. 
And it fluttered, strove, and 
struggled, 
Waving hither, waving thither, 
As the curtains of a wigwam 
Struggle with their thongs of deer- 


skin, 170 
When the wintry wind is blow- 
ing; 


Till it drew itself together, 
Till it rose up from the body, 
Till it took the form and features 
Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Vanishing into the forest. 

But the wary Hiawatha 
Saw the figure ere it vanished, 
Saw the form of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Glide into the soft blue shadow 18a 
Of the pine-trees of the forest; 
Toward the squares of white be. 

yond it, 

Toward an opening in the forest, 
Like a wind it rushed and panted, 
Bending all the boughs before it, 


| 


| 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


195 





And behind it, as the rain comes, 
Came the steps of Hiawatha. 
To a lake with many islands 
Came the breathless Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis, 
Where among the water-lilies 190 
Pishnekuh, the brant, were sailing; 
Through the tufts of rushes float- 
ing, 
Steering through the reedy islands. 
Now their broad black beaks they 
lifted, 
Now they plunged beneath the 
water, 
Now they darkened in the shadow, 
Now they brightened in the sun- 
shine. 
*Pishnekuh !? 
Keewis, 
*Pishnekuh! my brothers!’ said he, 
‘Change me to a brant with plu- 
mage, 200 
With a shining neck and feathers, 
Make me large, and make me 
larger, 
Ten times Jarger than the others.’ 
Straightway to a brant they 
changed him, 
With two huge and dusky pinions, 
With a bosom smooth and rounded, 
With a bill like two great paddles, 
Made him larger than the others, 
Ten times larger than the largest, 
Just as, shouting from the forest, 
On the shore stood Hiawatha. 211 
Up they rose with cry and 
clamor, 
With a whir and beat of pinions, 
Rose up from the reedy islands, 
From the water-flags and lilies. 
And they said to Pau-Puk-Keewis: 
‘In your flying, look not down- 


cried Pau-Puk- 


ward. 

Take good heed and look not down- 
ward, 

Lest some strange mischance 


should happen, 
Lest some great mishap befall 


you!’ 220 
Fast and far they fied to north- 
ward, 





Fast and far through mist and 
sunshine, 

Fed among the moors and fen- 
lands, 

Slept among the reeds and rushes. 

On the morrow as they jour- 

neyed, 
Buoyed and lifted by the South- 
wind, 
Wafted onward by the South-wind, 
Blowing fresh and strong behind 
them, 
Rose a sound of human voices, 229 
Rose a clamor from beneath them, 
From the lodges of a village, 
From the people miles beneath 
them. 

For the people of the village 

Saw the flock of brant with won- 
der, 
Saw the wings of Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Flapping far up in the ether, 
Broader than two doorway Cur- 
tains. 
Pau- Puk-Keewis heard the 
shouting, 
Knew the voice of Hiawatha, 
Knew the outery of Iagoo, 
And, forgetful of the warning, 
Drew his neck in, and looked 
downward, 
And the wind that blew behind 
him 
Caught his mighty fan of feathers, 
Sent him wheeling, whirling down- 
ward! 

Allin vain did Pau-Puk-Keewis 
Struggle to regain his balance! 
Whirling round and round and 

downward, 
He beheld in turn the village 249 
And in turn the flock above him, 
Saw the village coming nearer, 
And the flock receding farther, 
Heard the voices growing louder, 
Heard the shouting and the laugh- 
ter; 
Saw no more the flocks above him, 
Only saw the earth beneath him; 
Dead out of the empty heaven, ° 
Dead among the shouting people, 


240 


196 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





With a heavy sound and sullen, 
Fell the brant with broken pin- 


ions. 260 
But his soul, his ghost, his 
shadow, 


Still survived as Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Took again the form and features 
Of the handsome Yenadizze, 

And again went rushing onward, 
Followed fast by Hiawatha, 
Crying: *‘ Not so wide the world is, 
Not so long and rough the way is, 
But my wrath shall overtake you, 
But my vengeance shall attain 


you!’ 270 
And so near he came, so near 
him, 


That his hand was stretched to 
seize him, 

His right hand to seize and hold 
him, 

When the cunning Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis 

Whirled and spun about in circles, 

Fanned the air into a whirlwind, 

Danced the dust and leaves about 
him, 

And amid the whirling eddies 

Sprang into a hollow oak-tree, 279 

Changed himself into a serpent, 

Gliding out through root and rub- 
bish. 

With his right hand Hiawatha 
Smote amain the hollow oak-tree, 
Rent it into shreds and splinters, 
Left it lying there in fragments. 
But in vain; for Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Once again in human figure, 

Full in sight ran on before him, 288 
Sped away in gust and whirlwind. 
On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 
Westward by the Big-Sea-Water, 
Came unto the rocky headlands, 
To the Pietured Rocks of sand- 

stone, 

Looking over lake and landscape. 

And the Old Man of the Moun- 

tain, 
He the Manito of Mountains, 
Opened wide his rocky doorways, 
Opened wide his deep abysses, 


Giving Pau-Puk-Keewis shelter 
In his caverns dark and dreary, 
Bidding Pau-Puk-Keewis welcome 
To his gloomy lodge of sandstone. 
There without stood Hiawatha, 
Found the doorways closed against 
him, 304 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Smote great caverns in the sand. 
stone, 
Cried aloud in tones of thunder, 
‘Open! Tam Hiawatha!’ 
But the Old Man of the Mountain 
Opened not, and made no answer 
From the silent crags of sand- 
stone, 311 
From the gloomy rock abysses. 
Then he raised his hands to 
heaven, 
Called imploring on the tempest, 
Called Waywassimo, the lightning, 
And the thunder, Annemeekee; 
And they came with night and 
darkness, 
Sweeping down the Big-Sea-Water 
From the distant Thunder Moun- 


tains; 
And the trembling Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis 32G 


Heard the footsteps of the thunder, 

Saw the red eyes of the lightning, 

Was afraid, and crouched and 
trembled. 

Then Waywassimo, the light- 

ning, 

Smote the doorways of the cav- 
erns, 

With his war-club smote the door- 
ways, 

Smote the jutting crags of sand- 
stone, 

And the thunder, Annemeekee. 

Shouted down into the caverns, 

Saying, ‘Where is Pau-Puk-Kee- 


wis!’ 33a 
And the crags fell, and beneath 
them 


Dead among the rocky ruins 

Lay the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
Lay the handsome Yenadizze, 
Slain in his own human figure. 


in tae 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


-_— 


Ended were his wild adventures, 
Ended were his tricks and gam- 
bols, 
Ended all his craft and cunning, 
Ended all his mischief-making, 339 
All his gambling and his dancing, 
All his wooing of the maidens. 
Then the noble Hiawatha 
Took his soul, his ghost, his 
shadow, 
Spake and said: ‘O Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis, 
Never more in human figure 
Shall you search for new adven- 
tures ; 
Never more with jest and laughter 
Dance the dust and leaves in whirl- 
winds ; 
But above there in the heavens 
You shall soar and sail in cir- 
Clesi: 350 
y will change you to an eagle, 
To Keneu, the great war-eagle, 
Chief of all the fowls with fea- 
thers, 
Chief of Hiawatha’s chickens.’ 
And the name of Pau-Puk-Kee- 
wis 
Lingers still among the people, 
Lingers still among the singers, 
And among the story-tellers ; 
And in Winter, when the snow- 


flakes 
Whirl in eddies round the 
lodges, 360 


When the wind in gusty tumult 

Over the smoke-flue pipes and 
whistles, 

’ There,’ they ery,‘ comes Pau-Pak- 
Keewis ; 

He is dancing through the village, 

He is gathering in his harvest!’ 


XVIII 
THE DEATH OF KWASIND 
‘FAR and wide among the nations 


Spread the name and fame of 
Kwasind; 


197 


Sel 


No man dared to strive with 
Kwasind, 

No man could compete with Kwa- 
sind. 

But the mischievous Puk-Wudjies, 

They the envious Little People, 

They the fairies and the pygmies, 


Plotted and conspired against 
him. 
‘If this hateful Kwasind,’ said 
they, ; 


‘If this great, outrageous fellow ro 

Goes on thus a little longer, 

Tearing everything he touches, 

Rending everything to pieces, 

Filling all the world with won- 
der, 

What becomes of the Puk-Wud- 
jies ? 

Who will care for the Puk-Wud- 
jies ? 

He will tread us down like mush- 
rooms, 

Drive us all into the water, 

Give our bodies to be eaten 

By the wicked Nee-ba-naw-baigs, 

By the Spirits of the water!’ 21 

So the angry Little People 

All conspired against the Strong 
Man, 

All conspired to murder Kwasind, 

Yes, to rid the world of Kwasind, 

The audacious, overbearing, 


Heartless, haughty, dangerous 
Kwasind ! 

Now this wondrous strength of 
Kwasind 


In his crown alone was seated ; 

In his crown too was his weak- 
ness; 30 

There alone could he be wounded, 

Nowhere else could weapon pierce 
him, 

Nowhere else could weapon harm 
him. 

Even there the only weapon 

That could wound him, that could 
slay him, 

Was the seed-cone of the pine-tree, 

Was the blue cone of the fir-tree. 

This was Kwasind’s fatal secret. 


198 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





Known to no man among mortals; 
But the cunning Little People, 40 
The Puk-Wudjies, knew the se- 
eret, 
Knew the only way to kill him. 
So they gathered cones together, 
Gathered seed-cones of the pine- 
tree, 
Gathered blue cones of the fir- 
tree, 
In the woods by Taquamenaw, 
Brought them to the river’s mar- 


gin, 

Heaped them in great piles to- 
gether, 

Where the red rocks from the 
margin 

Jutting overhang the river. 50 

There they lay in wait for Kwa- 
sind, 


The malicious Little People. 

’T was an afternoon in Summer ; 
Very hot and still the air was, 
Very smooth the gliding river, 
Motionless the sleeping shadows: 
Insects glistened in the sunshine, 
Insects skated on the water, 
Filled the drowsy air with buzz- 

Ing, 
With a far resounding war-cry. 60 

Down the river came the Strong 

Man, : 
In his birch canoe came Kwasind, 
Floating slowly down the current 
Of the sluggish Taquamenaw, 
Very languid with the weather, 
Very sleepy with the silence. 

From the overhanging branches, 
From the tassels of the birch-trees, 
Soft the Spirit of Sleep descended; 
By his airy hosts surrounded, 70 
His invisible attendants, 

Came the Spirit of Sleep, Nepah- 
win ; 

Like a burnished Dush-kwo-ne- 
she, 

Like a dragon-fly, he hovered 

O’er the drowsy head of Kwasind. 

To his ear there came a mur- 

mur 

As of waves upon a sea-shore, 


AS of far-off tumbling waters, 
As of winds among the pine 
trees: 
And he felt upon his forehead 8« 
Blows of-little airy war-clubs, 
Wielded by the slumbrous le 
gions 
Of the Spirit of Sleep, Nepahwin, 
As of some one breathing on him. 
At the first blow of their war. 
clubs, 
Fell a drowsiness on Kwasind ; 
At the second blow they smote 
him, 
Motionless his paddle rested; 
At the third, before his vision 
Reeled the landscape into dark. 
ness, go 
Very sound asleep was Kwasind. 
So he floated down the river, 
Like a blind man seated upright, 
Floated down the Taquamenaw, 
Underneath the trembling birch. 
_ trees, 
Underneath 
lands, 
Underneath the war encampment 
Of the pygmies, the Puk-Wudjies. 
There they stood, all armed and 


the wooded head- 


waiting, 

Hurled the pine-cones down upon 
him, 10¢c 

Struck him on his brawny shoul. 
ders, 

On his crown defenceless struck 
him. 

‘Death to Kwasind !’ was the sud. 
den 


War-cry of the Little People. 
And he sideways swayed and 

tumbled, 

Sideways fell into the river, 

Plunged beneath the sluggish wa 
ter 

Headlong, as an otter plunges; 

And the birch canoe, abandoned, 

Drifted empty down the river, 114 


Bottom upward swerved and 
drifted : 

Nothing more was seen of Kwa 
sind. 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





199 





But the memory of the Strong 
Man 
Lingered long among the people, 
And whenever through the forest 
Raged and roared the wintry tem- 


pest, 

And the branches, tossed and 
troubled, 

Creaked and groaned and split 
asunder, 


*Kwasind!?’ cried they; ‘that is 
Kwasind ! 

He is gathering 

wood!’ 


fire- 
I20 


in his 


XIX 
THE GHOSTS 


NEVER stoops the soaring vulture 

On his quarry in the desert, 

On the sick or wounded bison, 

But another vulture, watching 

From his high aerial look-out, 

Sees the downward plunge, and 
follows; 

And a third pursues the second, 

Coming from the invisible ether, 

’ First a speck, and then a vulture, 
Till the air is dark with pinions. 10 
So disasters come not singly ; 
But as if they watched and waited, 

Scanning one another’s motions, 

When the first descends, the others 

Follow, follow, gathering flock-wise 

Round their victim, sick and 
wounded, ; 

first a shadow, then a sorrow, 

Till the air is dark with anguish. 

Now, o’er all the dreary North- 

land, 

Mighty Peboan, the Winter, 20 

preathing on the lakes and rivers, 

Into stone had changed their wa- 
ters. 

From his hair he shook the snow- 
flakes, 

Till the: plains were strewn with 
whiteness, 

One uninterrupted level, 


As if, stooping, the Creator 

With his hand had smoothed them 
over. 

Through the forest, wide and 

Wailing, 

Roamed the hunter on his snow- 
shoes; 

In the village worked the wo- 
men, 

Pounded maize, or 
deer-skin ; 

And the young men played to- 
gether 

On the ice the noisy ball-play, 

On the plain the danee of snow- 
shoes. 

One dark evening, after sun- 

down, 

In her wigwam Laughing Water 

Sat with old Nokomis, waiting 

For the steps of Hiawatha 

Homeward frem the hunt return. 


30 
dressed the 


ing. 
On their faces gleamed the fire- 
light, 40 


Painting them with streaks of 
crimson, 

In the eyes of old Nokomis 

Glimmered like the watery moon- 
light, 

In the eyes of Laughing Water 

Glistened like the sun in water; 

And behind them crouched their 
shadows 

In the corners of the wigwam, 

And the smoke in wreaths above 
them 

Climbed and crowded through the 
smoke-flue. 

Then the curtain of the door- 

way 5a 

From without was slowly lifted ; 

Brighter glowed the fire a moment, 

Anda moment swerved the smoke 
wreath 

As two women entered softly. 

Passed the doorway uninvite4, 

Without word of salutation, 

Without sign of recognition, 

Sat down in the farthest corner, 

Crouching low among the shadows 


200 


From their aspect and their gar- 


ments, 60 
Strangers seemed they in the vil- 
lage; 


Very pale and haggard were they, 
As they sat there sad and silent, 
Trembling, cowering with the shad- 
Ows. 
Was it the wind above the smoke- 
flue, 
Muttering down intothe wigwam ? 
Was it the owl, the Koko-koho, 
Hooting from the dismal forest ? 
Sure a voice said in the silence: 
‘These are corpses clad in gar- 
ments, 70 
These are ghosts that come to 
haunt you, 
From the kingdom of Ponemah, 
From the land of the Hereafter !? 
Homeward now came Hiawatha 
From his hunting in the forest, 
With the snow upon his tresses, 
And the red deer on his shoulders. 
At the feet of Laughing Water 
Down he threw his lifeless bur- 


den; 

Nobler, handsomer she thought 
him, 80 

Than when first he came to woo 
her, 

First threw down the deer before 
her, 


As a token of his wishes, 
As a promise of the future. 
Then he turned and saw the 
x strangers, 
Cowering, crouching with the 
shadows ; 
Said within himself, ‘Who are 


they ? 

What strange guests has Minne- 
haha?’ 

But he questioned not the stran- 
gers, 89 


Only spake to bid them welcome 
To his lodge, his food, his fire- 
side. 
When the evening meal was 
ready, 
And the deer had been divided, 





THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


woo 


Both the pallid guests, the stran 
gers, 

Springing from among the shad 
Ows, . 

Seized upon the choicest portions, 

Seized the white fat of the roe: 
buck, 

Set apart for Laughing Water, 

For the wife of Hiawatha ; 

Without asking, without thank. 
ing, 10e 

Eagerly devoured the morsels, 

Flitted back among the shadows 

In the corner of the wigwam. 

Not a word spake Hiawatha, 

Not a motion made Nokomis, 

Not a gesture Laughing Water; 

Nota change came o’er their fea. 
tures; 

Only Minnehaha softly 

Whispered, saying, ‘ They are fam- 


ished; 

Let them do what best delights 
them ; 110 

Let them eat, for they are fam- 
ished.’ 

Many a daylight dawned and 

darkened, 

Many a night shook off the day: 
light 

As the pine shakes off the snow. 
flakes 


From the midnight of its branches; 
Day by day the guests unmoving 
Sat there silent in the wigwam ; 
But by night, in storm or starlight, 
Forth they went into the forest, 
Bringing fire-wood to the wigwam, 
Bringing pine-cones for the burn 
ing, 121 
Always sad and always silent. 
And whenever Hiawatha 
Came from fishing or from hunting 
When the evening meal was ready, 
And the food had been divided, 
Gliding from their darksome cor 
ner, 
Came the pallid guests, the stran 
gers, 
Seized upon the choicest portions 
Set aside for Laughing Water, 136 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





And without rebuke or question 

Flitted back among the shadows. 
Never ounce had Hiawatha 

By a word or look reproved them ; 

Never once had old Nokomis 

Made a gesture of impatience ; 

Never once had Laughing Water 

Shown resentment at the outrage. 

All had they endured in silence, 

That the rights of guest and 

stranger, 140 

That the virtue of free-giving, 

By a look might not be lessened, 

By a word might not be broken. 
Once at midnight Hiawatha,- 

Ever wakeful, ever watchful, 

In the wigwam, dimly lighted 

By the brands that still were burn- 


ing, 
By the glimmering, flickering fire- 
light, 


Heard a sighing, oft repeated, | 
Heard a sobbing, as of sorrow. 150 
From his couch rose Hiawatha, 

From his shaggy hides of bison, 

Pushed aside the deer-skin cur- 
tain, 

Saw the pallid guests, the shad- 
Ows, 

Sitting upright on their couches, 

Weeping in the silent midnight. 

And he said: ‘O guests! why 

is it 

That your hearts are so afflicted, 

That you sob so in the midnight? 

Has perchance the old Nokomis, 

Has my wife, my Minnehaha,  16r 

Wronged or grieved you by unkind- 
ness, 

Failed in hospitable duties ?’ 

Then the shadows ceased from 

weeping, 

Ceased from sobbing and lament- 
ing, 

And they said, with gentle voices: 

‘We are ghosts of the departed, 

Souls of those who once were with 
you. 

From the realms of Chibiabos 169 

Hither have we come to try you, 

Hither have we come to warn ycu. 


, 


201 


‘Cries of grief and lamentation 
Reach us in the Blessed Islands; 
Cries of anguish from the living, 
Calling back their friends de- 

parted, 
Sadden us with useless sorrow. 
Therefore have we come to try 
you; 
No one knows us, no one heeds us. 
We are but a burden to you, 
And we see that the departed 180 
Have no place among the living. 

‘Think of this, O Hiawatha! 
Speak of it to all the people, 

That henceforward and forever 
They no more with lamentations 
Sadden the souls of the departed 
In the Islands of the Blessed. 

‘Do not lay such heavy burdens 
In the graves of those you bury, 
Not such weight of furs and wam- 


pum, 190 
Not such weight of pots and ket- 
tles, 


For the spirits faint beneath them. 

Only give them food to carry, 

Only give them fire to light them. 

‘Four days is the spirit’s journey 

To the land of ghosts and shadows, 

Four its lonely night encamp- 
ments ; 

Four times must their fires be 
lighted. 

Therefore, when the 
buried, 

Let a fire, as night approaches, 200 

Four times on the grave be kin- 
dled, 

That the soul upon its journey 

May not lack the cheerful firelight, 

May not grope about in darkness. 

* Farewell, noble Hiawatha! 

We have put you to the triai, 

To the proof have put your pa 
tience, 

By the insult of our presence, 

By the outrage of our actions. 

We have found you great and 
noble. 210 

Fail not in the greater trial, 

Faint not én the harder struggle.’ 


dead are 





When they ceased, a sudden 

darkness 

Fell and filled the silent wigwam. 

Hiawatha heard.a rustle 

As of garments trailing by him, 

Heard the curtain of the doorway 

Lifted by a hand he saw not, 

Felt the cold breath of the night 
air, 219 

For a moment saw the starlight ; 

But he saw the ghosts no longer, 

Saw no more the wandering spir- 
its 

From the kingdom of Ponemah, 

From the land of the Hereafter. 


XX 
THE FAMINE 


On the long and dreary Winter! 

Oh the cold and cruel Winter! 

Ever thicker, thicker, thicker 

Froze the ice on lake and river, 

Ever deeper, deeper, deeper 

Fell the snow o’er all the Jand- 
scape, 

Fell the covering snow, and drifted 

Through the forest, round the vil- 
lage. 
Hardly from his buried wigwam 
Could the hunter force a passage ; 
With his mittens and his snow- 
shoes II 

Vainly walked he through the for- 
est, i 

Sought for bird or beast and found 
none, 

Saw no track of deer or rabbit, 

In the snow beheld no footprints, 

In the ghastly, gleaming forest 

Fell, and could not rise from weak- 
ness, 

Perished there from cold and hun- 
ger. 

Oh the famine and the fever! 
Oh the wasting of the famine! 20 
Oh the blasting of the fever! 

Oh the wailing of the children ! 
Oh the anguish of the women! 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


== 


All the earth was sick and fam 
ished ; 
Hungry was the air around them, 
Hungry was the sky above them, 
And the hungry stars in heaven 
Like the eyes of wolves glared at 
them! 

Into Hiawatha’s wigwam 29 
Came two other guests, as silent 
As the ghosts were, and as gloomy, 
Waited not to be invited, 

Did not parley at the doorway, 

Sat there without word of welcome 

In the seat of Laughing Water ; 

Looked with haggard eyes and 
hollow 

At the face of Laughing Water. 

And the foremost said: ‘ Behold 

me! 

Tam Famine, Bukadawin!’ 

And the other said: ‘ Behold me! 

Tam Fever, Ahkosewin!? 4 

And the lovely Minnehaha 

Shuddered as they looked upon 
her, 

Shuddered at the words they ut- 
tered, 

Lay down on her bed in silence, 

Hid her face, but made no answer ; 

Lay there trembling, freezing, 
burning, 

At the looks they cast upon her, 

At the fearful words they uttered. 

Forth into the empty forest 50 
Rushed the maddened Hiawatha; 
In his heart was deadly sorrow, 
In his face a stony firmness ; 

On his brow the sweat of anguish 
Started, but it froze and fell not. 
Wrapped in furs and armed for 
hunting, 
With his mighty bow of ash-tree, 
With his quiver full of arrows, 
With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
Into the vast and vacant forest 64 
On his snow-shoes strode he for 
ward. 

‘Gitche Manito, the Mighty !’ 
Cried he with his face uplifted 
In that bitter hour of anguish, 
‘Give your children food, O father! 


4 


| 
| 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


203 





S;ive us food, or we must perish! 

Give me food for Minnehaha, 

For my dying Minnehaha!’ 
Through the far-resounding for- 


est, 
Through the forest* vast and va- 
cant 7o 


Rang that cry of desolation, 

But there came no other answer 

Than the echo of his crying, 

Than the echo of the woodlands, 

*Minnehaha! Minnehaha!’ 

All day long roved Hiawatha 

In that melancholy forest, 

Through the shadow of whose 
thickets, 

In the pleasant days of Summer, 

Of that ne’er forgotten Summer, 80 

He had’ brought his young wife 
homeward 

From the land of the Dacotahs ; 

When the birds sang in the thick- 
ets, 

And the streamlets laughed and 
glistened, 

And the air was full of fragrance, 

And the lovely Laughing Water 

Said with voice that did not trem- 
ble, 

*T will follow you, my husband !’ 
In the wigwam with Nokomis, 
With those gloomy guests that 

watched her, go 
With the Famine and the Fever, 
She was lying, the Beloved, 
She, the dying Minnehaha. 
*Hark!?she said ;‘ I hear a rush- 
ing, 
Hear a roaring and a rushing, 
Hear the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to me from a distance!’ 
*No, my child!’ said old Noko- 


nis, 
“Tis the night-wind in the pine- 
trees !? 
‘Look!’ she said; ‘I see my fa- 
ther 100 


Standing lonely at his doorway, 
Beckoning to me from his wigwam 
In the land of the Dacotahs !’ 

No, my child!’ said old Nokomis, 


“Tis the smoke, that waves and . 
beckons!’ 

‘Ah!’ said she, ‘the eyes of Pau 

guk 
Glare upon me in the darkness, 
I can feel his icy fingers 
Clasping mine amid the darkness! 
Hiawatha! Hiawatha !? 11g 

And the desolate Hiawatha, 

Far away amid the forest, 
Miles away among the mountains, 
Heard that sudden cry of anguish, 
Heard the voice of Minnehaha 
Calling to him in the darkness, 
‘Hiawatha! Hiawatha!’ 
Over snow-fields waste and path- 
less, 
Under snow-encumbered branches, 
Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 120 
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, 
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing: 
*Wahonowin! Wahonowin! 
Would that I had perished for 
you, 
Would that I were deadas you are! 
Wahonowin! Wahonowin !’ 

And he rushed into the wigwam, 
Saw the old Nokomis slowly 
Rocking to and fro and moaning, 
Saw his lovely Minnehaha 130 
Lying dead and cold before him, 
And his bursting heart within him 
Uttered such a cry of anguish, 
That the forest moaned and shud- 

dered, 
That the very stars in heaven 
Shook and trembled with his an- 
guish,. 
Then he sat down, still and 
speechless, 
On the bed of Minnehaha, 
At the feet of Laughing Water, 
At those willing feet, that never 140 
More would lightly run to meet 
him, 
Never more would lightly follow. 

With both hands his face he coy- 

ered, 

Seven long days and nights he sat 
there, 

As if in a swoon he sat there, 


204 


Speechless, 
scious 
Of the daylight or the darkness. 
Then they buried Minnehaha ; 
In the snow a grave they made 


motionless, uncon- 


her, 

In the forest deep and dark- 
some, 150 

Underneath the moaning hem- 
locks ; 

Clothed her in her richest gar- 
ments, 

Wrapped her in her robes of er- 
mine, 

Covered her with snow, like er- 
mine; 


Thus they buried Minnehaha. 
And at night a fire was lighted, 
On her grave four times was kin- 

dled, 
For her soul upon its journey 
To the Islands of the Blessed. 
From his doorway Hiawatha 
Saw it burning in the forest, 
Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks ; 
From his sleepless bed uprising, 
From the bed of Minnehaha, 
Stood and watched it at the door- 
way, 
That it might not be extinguished, 


160 


Might not leave her in the dark- 
ness. 

‘Farewell!’ said he, ‘ Minneha- 
ha! 

Farewell, O my Laughing Wa- 
ter! 


All my heart is buried with you, 

All my thoughts go onward with 
you! 171 

Come not back again to labor, 

Come not back again to suffer, 

Where the Famine and the Fe- 
ver 

Wear the heart and waste the 
body. 

Soon my task will be completed, 

Soon your footsteps I shall fol- 
low 

To the Islands of the Blessed, 

To the Kingdom of Ponemah, 

To the Land of the Hereafter!’ 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


XXI 
THE WHITE MAN’S FOOT 


IN his lodge beside a river, 

Close beside a frozen river, 

Sat an old man, sad and lonely. 

White his hair was as a snow- 
drift ; 2 

Dull and low his fire was burning, 

And the old man shook and trem- 
bled, 

Folded in his Waubewyon, 

In his tattered white-skin wrapper, 

Hearing nothing but the tempest 

As it roared along the forest, 10 

Seeing nothing but the snow-storm, 

As it whirled and hissed and 
drifted. i 

All the coals were white with 

ashes, 

And the fire was slowly dying, 

As a young man, walking lightly, 

At the open doorway entered. 

Red with blood of youth his cheeks 


were, 

Soft his eyes, as stars in Spring- 
time, 

Bound his forehead was with 
grasses ; 

Bound and plumed with scented 
grasses, 2¢ 


On his lips a smile of beauty, 

Filling all the lodge with sunshine, 

In his hand a bunch of blossoms 

Filling all the lodge with sweet- 
ness. 

‘Ah, my son!’ exclaimed the old 

man, 

‘Happy are my eyes to see you. 

Sit here on the mat beside me, 

Sit here by the dying embers, 

Let us pass the night together, 

Tell me of your strange adven: 


tures, 30 
Of the lands where you have tray- 
elled; 


I will tell you of my prowess, 
Of my many deeds of wonder.’ 
From his pouch he drew his 
peace-pipe, 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


205 





Very old and strangely fashioned ; 

Made of red stone was the pipe- 
head, 

And the stem a reed with feathers ; 

Filled the pipe with bark of willow, 

Placed a burning coal upon it, 

Gave it to his guest, the stranger, 4o 

And began to speak in this wise: 

*When I blow my breath about me, 

When I breathe upon the land- 
scape, 

Motionless are all the rivers, 

Hard as stone becomes the water !’ 

And the young man answered, 

smiling: 

‘When I blow my breath about me, 


When I breathe upon the land- 
scape, 
Flowers spring up o’er all the 
meadows, 
Singing, onward rush therivers !’ 50 
‘When I shake my _ hoary 
tresses,’ 


Said the old man darkly frowning, 

* All the land withsnow is covered; 

All the leaves from all the branches 

Fall and fade and die and wither, 

For I breathe, and lo! they are 
not. 

From the waters and the marshes 

Rise the wild goose and the heron, 

Fly away to distant regions, 

For I speak, and lo! they are not. 60 

And where’er my footsteps wander, 

All the wild beasts of the forest 

Hide themselves in holes and cay- 
ers, 

And the earth becomes as flint- 
stone!’ 

‘When I shake my flowing ring- 

lets,’ 

Said the young man, softly laugh- 
ing, 

‘Showers of rain fall warm and 
welcome, 

Plants lift up their heads rejoicing, 

Back into their lakes and marshes 

Come the wild goose and the 
heron, 70 

Homeward shoots the arrowy 
swallow, 


Sing the bluebird and the robin, 

And where’er my footsteps wan- 
der, 

All the meadows wave with blos- 
soms, 

All the woodlands ring with music 

All the trees are dark with foli 
age!’ 

While they spake, the night de 

parted : 

From the distant realms of Wabun, 

From his shining lodge of silver, 


Like a _ warrior robed and 
painted, 80 
Came the sun, and said, ‘Behold 
me! 
Gheezis, the great sun, behold 
me!’ 
Then the old man’s tongue was 
speechless 
And the air grew warm and plea 
sant, 


And upon the wigwam sweetly 

Sang the bluebird and the robin, 

And the stream began to mur- 
mur, 

And a scent of growing grasses 

Through the lodge was gently 


wafted. 
And Segwun, the youthful stran- 
ger, go 


More distinctly in the daylight 

Saw the icy face before him; 

It was Peboan, the Winter! 

From his eyes the tears were 

flowing, 

As from melting lakes the stream- 
lets, 

And his body shrunk and dwin- 
dled 

As the shouting sun ascended, 

Till into the air it faded, 

Till into the ground it vanished, 

And the young man saw before 
him, 100 

On the hearth-stone of the wig- 
wam, 

Where the fire had smoked and 
smouldered, 

Saw the earliest flower of Spring: 
time, 


206 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





Saw the Beauty of the Spring- 
time, 

Saw the Miskodeed in blossom. 

Thus it was that in the North- 

land 

After that unheard-of coldness, 

That intolerable Winter, 

Came the Spring with all its splen- 
dor, 

All its birds and all its blossoms, 

All its flowers and leaves and 


grasses. III 
Sailing on the wind to north- 
ward, 


Flying in great flocks, like arrows, 

Like huge arrows shot through 
heaven, 

Passed the swan, the Mahnahbe- 
Zee, 

Speaking almost as a man speaks; 

And in long lines waving, bend- 
ing 

Like a bow-string snapped asun- 
der, 

Came the white goose, Waw-be- 
wawa; 

And in pairs, or singly flying, 120 

Mabhng the loon, with clangorous 
pinions, 

The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh- 
gah, 

And the grouse, the Mushkodasa. 

In the thickets and the meadows 

Piped the bluebird, the Owaissa, 

On the summit of the lodges 

Sang the robin, the Opechee, 

In the covert of the pine-trees 

Cooed the pigeon, the Omemee; 

And the sorrowing Hiawatha, 130 

Speechless in his infinite sorrow, 

Heard their voices calling to him, 

Went forth from his gloomy door- 
way, 

Stood and gazed into the heaven, 

Gazed upon the earth and wa- 
ters. 

From his wanderings far to east- 

ward, 

From the regions of the morning, 

From the shining land of Wabun, 

Homeward now returned Iagoo, 


The great traveller, the great 


boaster, 140 
Full of new and strange adven- 
tures, 


Marvels many and many wonders, 
And the people of the village 
Listened to him as he told them 
Of his marvellous adventures, 
Laughing answered him in this 
wise: 

‘Ugh! it is indeed Iagoo! 

No one else beholds such won- 
ders!’ 148 

He had seen, he said, a water 
Bigger than the Big-Sea-Water, 
Broader than the Gitche Gumee, 
Bitter so that none could drink it! 
At each other looked the warriors, 
Looked the women at each other, 
Smiled, and said, ‘ It cannot be so! 
Kaw!’ they said, ‘it cannot be 

so!? 

O’er it, said he, o’er this water 
Came a great canoe with pinions, 
A canoe with wings came flying, 
Bigger than a grove of pine-trees, 
Taller than the tallest tree-tops! 
And the old men and the women 
Looked and tittered at each other; 
‘Kaw!’ they said, ‘we don’t be- 

lieve it!? 

From its mouth, he said, to greet 

him, 
Came Waywassimo, the lightning, 
Came the thunder, Annemeekee! ”? 
And the warriors and the women 
Laughed aloud at poor Iagoo; 
‘Kaw !? they said,‘ what tales you 
tellus) 2 170 

In it, said he, came a people, 

In the great canoe with pinions 

Came, he said, a hundred war- 
riors; 

Painted white were all their faces 

And with hair their chins were 
covered! 

And the warriors and the women 

Laughed and shouted in derision, 

Like the ravens on the tree-tops, 

Like the crows upon the hem 
locks, 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


207 





‘Kaw!’ they said, ‘what lies you 


tell us! 180 
Do not think that we believe 
them !’ 


Only Hiawatha laughed nof, 
But he gravely spake and an- 
swered 
To their jeering and their jesting: 
‘True is all Iagoo tells us; 
I have seen it in a vision, 
Seen the great canoe with pinions, 
Seen the people with white faces, 
Seen the coming of this bearded 
People of the wooden vessel go 
From the regions of the morning, 
From the shining land of Wabun. 
*Gitche Manito, the Mighty, 
The Great Spirit, the Creator, 
Sends them hither on his errand, 
Sends them to us with his mes- 
sage. 
Wheresoe’er 
them 
Swarms the stinging fly, the Ahmo, 
Swarms the bee, the honey-maker ; 
Whereso’er they tread, beneath 


they move, before 


them 200 

Springs a flower unknown among 
us, 

Springs the White-man’s Foot in 
blossom. 

‘Let us welcome, then, the stran- 

gers, 

Hail them as our friends and bro- 
thers, 

And the heart’s right hand of 
friendship 

Give them when they come to see 
us. 

Gitche Manito, the Mighty, 

Said this fo me in my vision. 

- *T beheld, too, in that vision 

All the secrets of the future, 2ro 


Of the distant days that shall be. 

I beheld the westward marches 

Of the unknown, crowded nations. 

All the land was full of people, 

Restless, struggling, toiling, striv- 
ing, 

Speaking many tongues, yet feel- 
ing 


But one heart-beat in their bos- 
oms. 

In the woodlands rang their axes, 

Smoked their towns in all the val- 
leys, 

Over all the lakes and rivers 220 

Rushed their great canoes of thun- 
der. 

‘Then a darker, drearier vision 

Passed before me, vague and 
cloud-like ; 

I beheld our nation scattered, 

All forgetful of my counsels, 

Weakened, warring with 
other: 

Saw the remuants of our people 

Sweeping westward, wild and wo- 
ful, 

Like the cloud-rack of a tempest, 

Like the withered leaves of Au- 
tumn!’ 230 


each 


XXII 
HIAWATHA’S DEPARTURE 


By the shore of Gitche Gumee, 
By the shining Big-Sea-Water, 

At the doorway of his wigwam, 
In the pleasant Summer morning, 
Hiawatha stood and waited. 

All the air was full of freshness, 
All the earth was bright and joy. 


ous, 

And before him, through the sun. 
shine, 

Westward toward the neighboring 
forest 

Passed in golden swarms the 
Ahmo, re) 

Passed the bees, the honey-mak- 
ers, 


Burning, singing in the sunshine. 
Bright above him shone the hea- 
vens, 
Level spread the lake before him ; 
From its bosom leaped the stur- 
geon, 
Sparkling, flashing in the sun 
shine ; : 


208 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





On its margin the great forest 

Stood reflected in the water, 

Every tree-top had its shadow, 

Motionless beneath the water. 20 
From. the brow of Hiawatha 

Gone was every trace of sorrow, 

As the fog from off the water, 

As the mist from off the meadow. 

With a smile of joy and triumph, 

With a look of exultation, 

AS of one who in a vision 

Sees what is to be, but is not, 

Stood and waited Hiawatha. 
Toward the sun his hands were 


lifted, 30 
Both the palms spread out against 
it, 


And between the parted fingers 

Fell the sunshine on his features, 

Flecked with light his naked shoul- 
ders, 

As it falls and flecks an oak-tree 

Through the rifted leaves and 
branches. 
O’er the water floating, flying, 
Something in the hazy distance, 
Something in the mists of morn- 
ing, 

Loomed and lifted from the wa- 
ter, 40 

Now seemed floating, now seemed 
flying, 

Coming nearer, nearer, nearer. 

Was it Shingebis the diver? 

Or the pelican, the Shada ? 

Or the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah ? 

Or the white goose, Waw-be-wawa, 

With the water dripping, flash- 
ing, 

From its glossy neck and fea- 
thers? 

It was neither goose nor diver, 
Neither pelican nor heron, 50 
O’er the water floating, flying, 
Through the shining mist of morn- 

ing, 
But a birch canoe with paddles, 
Rising, sinking on the water, 
Dripping, flashing in the sunshine; 
And within it came a people 
From the distant land of Wabun, 


From the farthest realms of morn- 


ing 

Came the Black-Robe chief, the 
Prophet, 

He the Priest of Prayer, the Pale- 
face, 60 

With his guides and his compan. 
ions. 


And the noble Hiawatha, 

With his hands aloft extended, 

Held aloft in sign of welcome, 

Waited, full of exultation, 

Till the birch canoe with paddles 

Grated on the shining pebbles, 

Stranded on the sandy margin, 

Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale- 
face, 

With the cross upon his bosom, 7o 

Landed on the sandy margin. 

Then the joyous Hiawatha 

Cried aloud and spake in this 
wise: 
‘Beautiful is the sun, O strangers, 
When you come so far to see us! | 
All our town in peace awaits you, 
All our doors stand open for you, 
You shall enter all our wigwams, 
For the heart’s right hand we give 
you. 
‘ Never 
gayly, 
Never shone the sun so brightly, 
As to-day they shine and blossom 
When you come so far to see us! 
Never was our lake so tranquil, 
Nor so free from rocks and sande 
bars. 
For your birch canoe in passing 
Has removed both rock and sande 
bar. 

‘ Never before had our tobacco 
Such a sweet and pleasant flavor, 
Never the broad leaves of our 

cornfields go 
Were so beautiful to look on, 


bloomed the earth so 
3e 


“As they seem to us this morning, 


When you come So far to see us!? 
And the Black-Robe chief made 
answer, 
Stammered in his speech a little, 
Speaking words yet unfamiliar: 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 


*Peace be with you, Hiawatha, 
Peace be with you and your peo- 


ple, 
Peace of prayer, and peace of par- 
don, 99 


Peace of Christ, and joy of Mary!’ 
Then the generous Hiawatha 
Led the strangers to his wigwam, 

Seated them on skins of bison, 
Seated them on skins of ermine, 
And the careful old Nokomis 
Brought them food in bowls of 
basswood, 
Water brought in birchen dippers, 
And the calumet, the peace-pipe, 
Filled and lighted for their smok- 
ing. 
All the old men of the village, 110 
All the warriors of the nation, 
' All the Jossakeeds, the Prophets, 
The magicians, the Wabenos, 
And the Medicine-men, the Medas, 
Came to bid the strangers welcome; 
‘It is well,’ they said, ‘ O brothers, 
That you come so far to see us!’ 
In a circle round the doorway, 
With their pipes they sat in 
silence, 
Waiting to behold the strangers, 120 
Waiting to receive their message; 
Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale- 
face, 
From the wigwam came to greet 
them, 
Stammering in his speech a little, 
Speaking words yet unfamiliar ; 
‘It is well, they said, ‘ O brother, 
That you come so far to see us!? 
Then the Black-Robe chief, the 
Prophet, 
Told his message to the people, 
Told the purport of his mission, 130 
Told them of the Virgin Mary, 
And her blessed Son, the Saviour, 
How in distant lands and ages 
He had lived on earth as we do; 
How he fasted, prayed, and la- 
bored; 
How the Jews, the tribe accursed, 
Mocked him, scourged him, cruci- 
fied him; 


209 





How he rose from where they laid 
him, 
Walked again with his disciples, 
And ascended into heaven. 140 
And the chiefs made answer, say- 
ing: 
‘We have listened to your mes- 
sage, 
We have heard your words of wis- 
dom, 
We will think on what you tell us. 
It is well for us, O brothers, 
That you come so far to see us!’ 
Then they rose up and departed 
Each one homeward to his wig- 
wam, 
To the young men and the wo- 
men 
Told the story of the strangers 150 
Whom the Master of Life had sent 
them 
From the shining land of Wabun. 
Heavy with the heat and silence 
Grew the afternoon of Summer ; 
With a drowsy sound the forest 
Whispered round the sultry wig- 
wam, 
With a sound of sleep the water 
Rippled on the beach below it; 
From the cornfields shrill and 


ceaseless 
Sang the grasshopper, Pah-puk- 
keena; 160 


And the guests of Hiawatha, 

Weary with the heat of Summer, 

Slumbered in the sultry wigwam. 

Slowly o’er the simmering land- 

scape 

Fell the evening’s dusk and cool- 
ness, 

And the long and level sunbeams 

Shot their spears into the forest, 


‘Breaking through its shields of 


shadow, 
Rushed into each secret ambush, 
Searched each thicket, dingle, hol- 
low; 170 
Still the guests of Hiawatha 
Slumbered in the silent wigwam. 
From his place rose Hiawatha, 
Bade farewell to old Nokomis, 


210 


THE SONG OF HIAWATHA 





Spake in whispers, spake in this 
wise, 

Did not wake the guests, that 
slumbered : 

‘Tam going, O Nokomis, 

On a long and distant journey, 

To the portals of the Sunset, 

To the regions of the home-wind, 

Of the Northwest-Wind, Keeway- 


din. 181 

But these guests I leave behind 
me, 

In your watch and ward I leave 
them; 

See that never harm comes near 
them, 


See that never fear molests them, 
Never danger nor suspicion, 
Never want of food or shelter, 
In the lodge of Hiawatha!’ 

Forth into the village went he, 
Bade farewell to all the warriors, 
Bade farewell to all the young 


men, 1g! 
Spake persuading, spake in this 
wise: 


‘Iam going, O my people, 

On a long and distant journey ; 

Many moons and many winters 

Will have come, and will have 
vanished, 

Ere I come again to see you. 

But my guests I leave behind me; 

Listen to their words of wisdom, 

Listen to the truth they tell you, 

For the Master of Life has sent 
them 201 

From the land of light and morn- 
ing!’ 

On the shore stood Hiawatha, 

Turned and waved his hand at 
parting; 

On the clear and luminous water 

Launched his birch canoe for sail- 
ing, 

From the pebbles of the margin 

Shoved it forth into the water ; 

Whispered to it,‘ Westward! west- 
ward!’ 209 

And with speed it darted forward. 


And the evening sun descend 


ing 

Set the clouds on fire with red- 
ness, 

Burned the broad sky, like a 
prairie, 


Left upon the level water 

One long track and trail of splen 
dorwn: 

Down whose stream, as down a 
river, 

Westward, westward Hiawatha 

Sailed into the fiery sunset, 

Sailed into the purple vapors, 

Sailed into the dusk of evening. 220 

And the people from the mar- 

gin 

Watched him floating, rising, sink. 
ioe 

Till the birch canoe seemed lifted 

High into that sea of splendor, 

Tillit sank into the vapors 

Like the new moon slowly, slowly 

Sinking in the purple distance. 

And they said, ‘Farewell for- 

ever!’ 

Said, ‘ Farewell, O Hiawatha!’ 229 

And the forests, dark and lonely, 

Moved through all their depths of 
darkness, 

Sighed, ‘ Farewell, O Hiawatha!? 

And the waves upon the margin 

Rising, rippling on the pebbles, 

Sobbed, ‘ Farewell, O Hiawatha!’ 

And the heron, the Shuh-shuh. 


gah, 

From her haunts among the fen- 
lands, 

Screamed, ‘Farewell, O Hiawa- 
tha!’ 


Thus departed Hiawatha, 
Hiawatha the Beloved, 
In the glory of the sunset, 
In the purple mists of evening, 
To the regions of the home-wind, 
Of the Northwest-Wind, Keeway 

din, 

To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the Kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the Land of the Hereafter! 


240 


THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 211 





for, COURTSHIP OF UMILES. STANDISH 


I 


MILES STANDISH 


In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims, 

To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling, 

Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather, 

Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain. 

Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing 

Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare, 

Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, — 

Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus, 

Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence, 

While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and match, 
lock. 10 

Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic, 

Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron; 

Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already 

Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November. 

Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion, 

Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window; 

Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion, 

Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives 

Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, ‘ Not Angles, but Angels.’ 

Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower. 20 


Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting, 
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth. 
“Look at these arms,’ he said, ‘the warlike weapons that hang here 
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection! 

This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breast- 
plate, 

Well I remember the day! once saved my life in a skirmish; 

Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet 

Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero. 

Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish 

Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish 


morasses.’ 30 
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writ- 
ing: 


‘Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet; 

He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!’ 

Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling: 
See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging; 
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others. 

Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage ; 


212 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 





So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn. 

Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army, 

Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock, 4e 

Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage, 

And, like Cesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!’ 

This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams 

Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment. 

Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued : 

‘Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted 

High on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks to the pur. 
pose, 

Steady, straightforward, and strong, with irresistible logic, 

Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts of the heathen. 

Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the Indians; 5° 

Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they try it the better, — 

Let them come, if they like, be it sagamore, sachem, or pow-wow, 

Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon !?’ 


Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed on the landscape, 
Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory breath of the east-wind, 
Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the ocean, 
Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine. 

Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the landscape, 

Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was subdued with 
emotion, 

Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he proceeded : 60 

‘Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried Rose Standish; 

Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the wayside! 

She was the first to die of all who came in the Mayflower! 

Green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown there, 

Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves of our people, 

Lest they should count them and see how many already have perished!’ 

Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, and was thoughtful. 


Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among them 
Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and tor binding; 
Bariffe’s Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of Cesar 70 
Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge of London, 

And, as if guarded by these, between them was standing the Bible. 

Musing a moment before them, Miles Standish paused, as if doubtful 

Which of the three he should choose for his consolation and comfort, 

Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous campaigns of the 
Romans, 

Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent Christians. 

Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponderous Roman, 

Seated himself at the window, and opened the book, and in silence 
Turned o’er the well-worn leaves, where thumb-marks thick on the 
margin, ; 

Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle was hottest. 8a 
Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, 
Busily writing epistles important, to go by the Mayflower, 


THE’ COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH = 213 





Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, God willing! 
Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter, 
Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of Priscilla! 

Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla! 


II 
LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP 


NOTHING was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, 

Or au oceasional sigh from the laboring heart of the Captain, 

Reading the marvellous words and achievements of Julius Cesar. 

After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his hand, palm down- 
wards, * go 

Heavily on the page: ‘A wonderful man was this Cesar! 

You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here is a fellow 

Who could both write and fight, and in both was equally skilful!’ 

Straightway answered and spake John Alden, the comely, the youthful: 

‘Yes, he was equally skilled,as you say, with his pen and his weapons. 

Somewhere have I read, but where I forget, he could dictate 

Seven letters at once, at the same time writing his memoirs.’ 

‘Truly,’ continued the Captain, not heeding or hearing the other, 

‘Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Cesar! 

Better be first, he said, in a little Iberian village, 10@ 

Than be second in Rome, and I think he was right when he said it. 

Twice was he married before he was twenty, and many times after; 

Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand cities he conquered; 

He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himself has recorded ; 

Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator Brutus! 

Now, do you know what he did on a certain occasion in Flanders, 

When the rear-guard of his army retreated, the front giving way too, 

And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded so closely together 

There was no room for their swords? Why, he seized a shield from a 


soldier, 
eut himself straight at the head of his troops, and commanded the cap- 
tains, 110 


Yalling on each by his name, to order forward the ensigns ; 

Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for their weapons; 
So he won the day, the battle of something-or-other. 

That ’s what I always say; if you wish a thing to be well done, 
You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!’ 


All was silent again; the Captain continued his reading. 
Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling 
Writing epistles important to go next day by the Mayflower, 
Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla; 
Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla, 12G 
Tillthe treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret, 
Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name of Priscilla ! 
Finally closing his book, with a bang of the ponderous cover, 


214. THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 





Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his musket, 

Thus tothe young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth: 

‘When you have finished your work, I have something important te 
tell you. 

Be not however in haste; I can wait; I shall not be impatient!’ 

Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters, 

Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention: 

‘Speak; for whenever you speak, Il am always ready to listen, 136 

Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish.’ 

Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his 
phrases: 

*°T is not good for a man to be alone, say the Scriptures. 

This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it; 

Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and say it. 

Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary; 

Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship ; 

Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla. 

She is alone in the world; her father and mother and brother 

Died in the winter together; I saw her going and coming, 140 

Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed of the dying, 

Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if ever 

There were angels on earth, as there are angels in heaven, 

Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose name is Priscilla 

Holds in my desolate life the place which the other abandoned. 

Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to reveal it, 

Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part. 

Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth, 

Say that a blunt old Captain, aman not of words but of actions, 

Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier. 156 

Not in these words, you know, but this in short is my meaning; 

Iam a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases. 

You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in elegant language, 

Such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers, 

Such as you think best adapted to win the heart of a maiden.’ 


When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair-haired, taciturn stripling, 
All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, bewildered, 
Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject with lightness, 
Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand still in his bosom, 
Just as a timepiece stops in a house that is stricken by lightning, 164 
Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered than answered : 
‘Such a message as that, I am sure I should mangle and mar it; 
If you would have it well done, —I am only repeating your maxim, — 
You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!’ 
But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn from his purpose, 
Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Captain of Plymouth: 
‘Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to gainsay it; 
But we must use it discreetly, and not waste powder for nothing. 
Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of phrases. 
I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender, 174 
But march up to a woman with such a proposal, I dare not. 


Bee sCOURTSOIE OF MILESYSTANDISH tars 


—— 








I’m not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a cannon, 

But of a thundering “ No!” point-blank from the mouth of a woman, 

That I confess I’m afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it ! 

So you must grant my request, for you are an elegant scholar, 

Having the graces of speech, and skill in the turning of phrases.’ 

Taking the hand of his friend, who still was reluctant and doubtful, 

Holding it long in his own, and pressing it kindly, he added: 

*Though J have spoken thus lightly, yet deep is the feeling that 
prompts me; 

Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name of our friend- 
ship!’ 180 

Then made answer John Alden: ‘ The name of friendship is sacred; 

What you demand in that name, I have not the power to deny you !? 

So the strong will prevailed, subduing and moulding the gentler, 

Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand. 


III 
THE LOVER’S ERRAND 


So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on his errand, 

Out of the street of the village, and into the paths of the forest, 

Into the tranquil woods, where bluebirds and robins were building 
Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gardens of verdure, 
Peaceful, aerial cities of joy and affection and freedom. 

All around him was calm, but within him commotion and conflict, 190 
Love contending with friendship, and self with each generous impulse. 
To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heaving and dashing, 

As ina foundering ship, with every roll of the vessel, 

Washes the bitter sea, the merciless surge of the ocean! 

‘Must I relinquish it all, he cried with a wild lamentation, — 

‘Must I relinquish it all, the joy, the hope, the illusion ? 

Was it for this I have loved, and waited, and worshipped in silence ? 
Was it for this I have followed the flying feet and the shadow 

Over the wintry sea, to the desolate shores of New England ? 

Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths of corruption 200 
Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms of passion ; 

Angels of light they seem, but are only delusions of Satan. 

All is clear to me now; I feel it, I see it distinctly ! 

This is the hand of the Lord; it is laid upon me in anger, 

For I have followed too much the heart’s desires and devices, 
Worshipping Astaroth blindly, and impious idols of Baal. 

This is the cross I must bear; the sin and the swift retribution.’ 


So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand ; 
Crossing the brook at the ford, where it brawled over pebble and shak 
low, 
Gathering still, as he went, the May-flowers blooming around him, 210 
Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and wonderful sweetness, 
Children lost in the woods, and covered with leaves in their slumber, 


216. «| THEE COURTSHIP) OF MILESSS TANDISH 








* Puritan flowers,’ he said, ‘and the type of Puritan maidens, 

Modest and simple and sweet, the very type of Priscilla! 

So I will take them to her; to Priscilla the Mayflower of Plymouth, 

Modest and simple and sweet, as a parting gift will 1 take them; 

Breathing their silent farewells, as they fade and wither and perish, 

Soon to be thrown away as is the heart of the giver.’ 

So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went on his errand; 

Came to an open space, and saw the disk of the ocean, 220 

Sailless, sombre and cold with the comfortless breath of the east-wind; — 

Saw the new-built house, and people at work in a meadow ; 

Heard, as he drew near the door, the musical voice of Priscilla 

Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puritan anthem, 

Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of the Psalmist, 

Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and comforting many. 

Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form of the maiden 

Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like a snow-drift 

Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding the ravenous spindle, 

While with her foot on the treadle she guided the wheel in its motion. 

Open wide on her lap Jay the well-worn psalm-book of Ainsworth, 231 

Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the music together, 

Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the wall of a churchyard, 

Darkened and overhung by the running vine of the verses. 

Such was the book from whose pages she sang the old Puritan anthem. 

She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the forest, 

Making the humble house and the modest apparel of homespun 

Beautiful with her beauty, and rich with the wealth of her being! 

Over him rushed, like a wind that is keen and cold and relentless, 

Thoughts of what might have been, and the weight and woe of his 
errand; 240 

All the dreams that had faded, and all the hopes that had vanished, 

All his life henceforth a dreary and tenantless mansion, 

Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, sorrowful faces. 

Still he said to himself, and almost fiercely he said it, 

* Let not him that putteth his hand to the plough look backwards ; 

Though the ploughshare cut through the flowers of life to its fountains, 

Though it pass o’er the graves of the dead and the hearths of the liv- 
ing, 

It is the will of the Lord; and his mercy endureth forever! ’ 


So he entered the house: and the hum of the wheel and the singing 
Suddenly ceased ; for Priscilla, aroused by his step on the threshold, 
Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in signal of welcome, 252 
Saying, ‘I knew it was you, when I heard your step in the passage ; 
For [ was thinking of you, as I sat there singing and spinning.’ 
Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought of him had been min: 

gled 
Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the heart of the maiden, 
Silent before her he stood, and gave her the flowers for an answer, 
Finding no words for his thought. He remembered that day in tne 
winter, 
After the first great snow, when he broke a path from the village, 





THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 217 





Reeling and plunging along through the drifts that encumbered the 
doorway, 

Stamping the snow from his feet as he entered the house, and Priscilla 

Laughed at his snowy locks, and gave him a seat by the fireside, 261 

Grateful and pleased to know he had thought of her in the snow-storm, 

Had he but spoken then! perhaps not in vain had he spoken; 

Now it was all too late; the golden moment had vanished! 

So he stood there abashed, and gave her the flowers for an answer. 


Then they sat down and talked of the birds and the beautiful Spring- 

time, 

Talked of their friends at home, and the Mayflower that sailed on the 
morrow. 

‘TI have been thinking all day,’ said gently the Puritan maiden, 

‘Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of the hedge-rows of Eng- 
land, — 

They are in blossom now, and the country is all like a garden: 270 

Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the lark and the linnet, 

Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of neighbors 

Going about as of old, and stopping to gossip together, 

And, at the end of the street, the village church, with the ivy 

Climbing the old gray tower, and the quiet graves in the churchyard. 

Kind are the people I live with, and dear to me my religion ; 

Still my heart is so sad, that I wish myself back in Old England. 

You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help it: I almost 

Wish myself back in Old England, I feel so lonely and wretched.’ 


Thereupon answered the youth: ‘ Indeed I do not condemn you; 280 
Stouter hearts than a woman’s have quailed in this terrible winter. 
Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger to lean on: 

So I have come to you now, with an offer and proffer of marriage 
Made by a good man and true, Miles Standish the Captain of Ply- 
mouth!’ 


Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous writer of letters, — 
Did not embellish the theme, nor array it in beautiful phrases, 
But came straight to the point, and blurted it out like a school-boy; 
Even the Captain himself could hardly have said it more bluntly. 
Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla the Puritan maiden 
Looked into Alden’s face, her eyes dilated with wonder, 290 
Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned her and rendered her 

speechless; 

Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence: 
“Tf the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, 
Why does he not come himself, and take the trouble to woo me? 
If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning !° 
Then John Alden began explaining and smoothing the matter, 
Making it worse as he went, by saying the Captain was busy, — 
Had no time for such things — such things! the words grating harshly 
Fell on the ear of Priscilla; and swift as a fiash she made answer: 
‘Has he no time for such things, as you Call it, befure he is married, 


218 ‘THE: ‘COURTSHIP.OF MILES "STANDISH 


= aes ay 


Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after the wedding ? 301 

That is the way with you men; you don’t understand us, you cannot. 

When you have made up your minds, after thinking of this one and 
that one, 

Choosing, selecting, rejecting, comparing one with another, 

Then you make known your desire, with abrupt and sudden avowal, 

And are offended and hurt, and indignant perhaps, that a woman 

Does not respond at once to a love that she never suspected, 

Does not attain ata bound the height to which you have been climbing. 

This is not right nor just: for surely a woman’s affection 

Is not a thing to be asked for, and had for only the asking. 318 

When one is truly in love, one not only says it, but shows it. 

Had he but waited awhile, had he only showed that he loved me, 

Even this Captain of yours— who knows?— at last might have won 
me, 

Old and rough as he is; but now it never can happen.’ ’ 





Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words of Priscilla, 
Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuading, expanding; 
Spoke of his courage and skill, and of all his battles in Flanders, 
How with the people of God he had chosen to suffer affliction ; 
How, in return for his zeal, they had made him Captain of Plymouth; 
He was a gentleman born, could trace his pedigree plainly 320 
Back to Hugh Standish of Duxbury Hall, in Lancashire, England, 
Who was the son of Ralph, and the grandson of Thurston de Standish; 
Heir unto vast estates, of which he was basely defrauded, 
Still bore the family arms, and had for his crest a cock argent, 
Combed and wattled gules, and all the rest of the blazon. 
He was a man of honor, of noble and generous nature; 
Though he was rough, he was kindly; she knew how during the winter 
He had attended the sick, with a hand as gentle as woman’s; 
Somewhat hasty and hot, he could not deny it, and headstrong, 
Stern as a soldier might be, but hearty, and placable always, 3390 
Not to be laughed at and scorned, because he was little of stature ; 
For he was great of heart, magnanimous, courtly, courageous ; 
Any woman in Plymouth, nay, any woman in England, 
Might be happy and proud to be called the wife of Miles Standish! 


But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and eloquent language. 
Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of his rival, 
Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eves overrunning with laughter, 
Said, in a tremulous voice, ‘ Why don’t you speak for yourself, John ?* 


IV 
JOHN ALDEN 
INTO the open air John Alden, perplexed and bewildered, 


Rushed like a man insane, and wandered alone by the sea-side ; 340 
Paced up and down the sands, and bared his head to the east-wind, 


THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH ~ 2i9 





Cooling his heated brow, and the fire and fever within him. 
Slowly as out of the heavens, with apocalyptical splendors, 
Sank the City of God, in the vision of John the Apostle, 

So, with its cloudy walls of chrysolite, jasper, and sapphire, 
Sank the broad red sun, and over its turrets uplifted 
Glimmered the golden reed of the angel who measured the city. 


‘Welcome, O wind of the East!’ he exclaimed in his wild exulta- 

tion, 

‘Welcome, O wind of the East, from the caves of the misty Atlan- 
tic! 

Blowing o’er fields of dulse, and measureless meadows of sea-grass, 

Blowing o’er rocky wastes, and the grottoes and gardens of ocean ! 351 

Lay thy cold, moist hand on my burning forehead, and wrap me 

Close in thy garments of mist, to allay the fever within me!’ 


Like an awakened conscience, the sea was moaning and tossing, 
Beating remorseful and loud the mutable sands of the sea-shore. 
Fierce in his soul was the struggle and tumult of passions contend- 

ing; 
Love triumphant and crowned, and friendship wounded and bleeding, 
Passionate cries of desire, and importunate pleadings of duty! 
‘Is it my fault, he said, ‘that the maiden has chosen between us? 
Is it my fault that he failed,— my fault that I am the victor?’ 360 
Then within him there thundered a voice, like the voice of the Pro- 
phet: 
‘It hath displeased the Lord!’— and he thought of David’s transgres- 
sion, 
Bathsheba’s beautiful face, and his friend in the front of the battle! 
Shame and confusion of guilt, and abasement and seli-condemnation, 
Overwhelmed him at once: and he cried in the deepest contrition: 
“It hath displeased the Lord! It is the temptation of Satan!’ 


Then, uplifting his head, he looked at the sea, and beneld there 
Dimly the shadowy form of the Mayflower riding at anchor, 
Rocked on the rising tide, and ready to sail on the morrow; 
Heard the voices of men through the mist, the rattle of cordage 370 
Thrown on the deck, the shouts of the mate, and the sailors’ * Ay, ay, 

Sir!’ 

Clear and distinct, but not loud, in the dripping air of the twilight. 
Still for a moment he stood, and listened, and stared at the vessel, 
Then went hurriedly on, as one who, seeing a phantom, 
Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the beckoning shadow. 
“Yes, itis plain to me now,’ he murmured; ‘the hand of the Lord is 
Leading me out of the land of darkness, the bondage of error, 
Through the sea, that shall lift the walls of its waters around me, 
Hiding me, cutting me off, from the cruel thoughts that pursue me. 
Back will I go o’er the ocean, this dreary land will abandon, 380 
Her whom I may not love, and him whom my heart has offended. 
Better to be in my grave in the green old churchyard in England, 
Close by my mother’s side, and among the dust of my kindred; 


22006 THE: COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 








Better be dead and forgotten, than living in shame and dishonor; 

Sacred and safe and unseen, in the dark of the narrow chamber 

With me my secret shall lie, like a buried jewel that glimmers 

Bright on the hand that is dust, in the chambers of silence and dark 
ness, — 

Yes, aS the marriage ring of the great espousal hereafter !? 


Thus as he spake, he turned, in the strength of his strong resolu. 

tion, 

Leaving behind him the shore, and hurried along in the twilight, | 39a 

Through the congenial gloom of the forest silent and sombre, 

Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of Plymouth, 

Shining like seven stars in the dusk and mist of the evening. 

Soon he entered his door, and found the redoubtable Captain 

Sitting alone, and absorbed in the martial pages of Ceesar, 

Fighting some great campaign in Hainault or Brabant or Flanders. f 

*Long have you been on your errand,’ he said with a cheery de. 
meanor, 

Even as one who is waiting an answer, and fears not the issue. 

‘ Not far off is the house, although the woods are between us ; 

But you have lingered so long, that while you were going and coming 

T have fought ten battles and sacked and demolished a city. 4ot 

. Come, sit down, and in order relate to me all that has happened.’ 


Then John Alden spake, and related the wondrous adventure, 

From beginning to end, minutely, just as it happened; 

How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had sped in his courtship, 

Only smoothing a little, and softening down her refusal. 

But when he came at length to the words Priscilla had spoken, 

Words so tender and cruel: ‘Why don’t you speak for yourself, 
John?’ 

Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped on the floor, till his 
armor 

Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound of sinister omen. 410 

All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden explosion, 

FE’en as a hand-grenade, that scatters destruction around it. 

Wildly he shouted, and loud: ‘John Alden! you have betrayed me! 

Me, Miles Standish, your friend! have supplanted, defrauded, be- 
trayed me! 

One of my ancestors ran his sword through the heart of Wat Tyler; 

Who shall prevent me from running my own through the heart of a 
traitor? 

Yours is the greater treason, for yours is a treason to friendship ! 

You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished and loved as a brother; 

You, who have fed at my board, and drunk at my cup, to whose keep. 


ing 
I have intrusted my honor, my thoughts. the most sacred and se 
cret, — 42¢ 


You too, Brutus! ah woe to the name of friendship hereafter ! 
Brutus was Ceesar’s friend, and you were mine, but henceforward 
Let there be nothing between us save war, and implacable hatred !? 


HE’ COURTSHIP: OF MILES STANDISH 221 





_ 


So spake the Captain of Plymouth, and strode about in the chamber, 
Chafing and choking with rage; like cords were the veins on his temples, 
But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at the doorway, 
Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent importance, 

Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions of Indians! 
dtraightway the Captain paused, and, without further question or par- 

ley, 

Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its scabbard of iron, 43¢ 
Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning fiercely, departed. 
Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the scabbard 

Growing fainter and fainter, and dying away in the distance. 

Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into the darkness, 
Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot with the insult, 
Lifted his eyes to the heavens, and, folding his hands as in childhood, 
Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who seeth in secret. 


Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrathful away to the council, 
Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting his coming ; 
Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in deportment, 440 
Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to heaven, 
Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder of Plymouth. 
God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting, 
Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a nation; 
So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of the people! 
Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude stern and defiant, 
Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious in aspect ; 
While on the table before them was lying unopened a Bible, 
Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed in Holland, 
And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattlesnake glittered, 450 
Filled, like a quiver, with arrows; a signal and challenge of warfare, 
Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy tongues of defiance. 
This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and heard them debating 
What were an answer befitting the hostile message and menace, 
Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting, objecting ; 
One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the Elder, 
Judging it wise and well that some at least were converted, 
Rather than any were slain, for this was but Christian behavior! 
Then out spake Miles Standish, the stalwart Captain of Plymouth, 
Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was husky with anger, 46a 
‘What! do you mean to make war with milk and the water of roses? 
Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your howitzer planted 
There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot red devils? 
Truly the only tongue that is understood by a savage 
Must be the tongue of fire that speaks from the mouth of the cannon !?° 
Thereupon answered and said the excellent Elder of Plymouth, 
Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent language: 
‘Not so thought St. Paul, nor yet the other Apostles ; 
Not from the cannon’s mouth were the tongues of fire they spake with! ! 
But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Captain, 47a 
Who had advanced to the table, and thus continued discoursing: 

Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it pertaineth. 


222.0 THESCOURTESHIP, OF YMILES STANDISH 








War is a terrible trade ; but in the cause that is righteous, 
Sweet is the smell of powder; and thus I answer the challenge!? 


Then from the rattlesnake’s skin, with a sudden, contemptuous ges. 
ture, 

Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder and bullets 
Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to the savage, 
Saying, in thundering tones: ‘ Here, take it! this is your answer !? 
Silently out of the room then glided the glistening savage, 
Bearing the serpent’s skin, and seeming himself like a serpent, 48a 
Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths of the forest. 


Vv 
THE SAILING OF THE MAYFLOWER 


JuST in the gray of the dawn, as the mists uprose from the meadows, 
There was a stir and a sound in the slumbering village of Plymouth ; 
Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order imperative, * Forward !? 
Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet, and then silence. 

Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out of the village. 

Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his valorous army, 

Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend of the white men, 
Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt of the savage. 

Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty men of King David; 490 
Giants in heart they were, who believed in God and the Bible, — 

Ay, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and Philistines. 

Over them gleamed far off the crimson banners of morning ; 

Under them loud on the sands, the serried billows, advancing, 

Fired along the line, and in regular order retreated. 


Many a mile had they marched, when at length the village of Ply- 
mouth 
Woke from its sleep, and arose, intent on its manifold labors. 
Sweet was the air and soft; and slowly the smoke from the chimneys 
Rose over roofs of thatch, and pointed steadily eastward ; 
Men came forth from the doors, and paused and talked of the 


weather, 504 
Said that the wind had changed, and was blowing fair for the May. 
flower ; 


Talked of their Captain’s departure, and all the dangers that, menaced, 
He being gone, the town, and what should be done in his absence. 
Merrily sang the birds, and the tender voices of women 

Consecrated with hymns the common cares of the household. 

Out of the sea rose the sun, and the billows rejoiced at his coming ; 
Beautiful were his feet on the purple tops of the mountains ; 
Beautiful on the sails of the Mayflower riding at anchor, 

Battered and blackened and worn by all the storms of the winter. 
Loosely against her masts was hanging and flapping her canvas, 51@ 
Rent by so many gales, and patched by the hands of the sailors. 


THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 223 





Suddenly from her side, as the sun rose over the ocean, 

Darted a puff of smoke, and floated seaward; anon rang 

Loud over field and forest the cannoun’s roar, and the echoes 

Heard and repeated the sound, the signal-gun of departure! 

Ah! but with louder echoes replied the hearts of the people! 

Meekly, in voices subdued, the chapter was read from the Bible, 
Meekly the prayer was begun, but ended in fervent entreaty ! 

Then from their houses in haste came forth the Pilgrims of Plymouth, 
Men and women and children, all hurrying down to the sea-shore, 520 
Eager, with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the Mayflower, 

Homeward bound o’er the sea, and leaving them here in the desert. 


Foremost among them was Alden. All night he had lain without 

slumber, 

Turning and tossing about in the heat and unrest of his fever. 

He had beheld Miles Standish, who came back late from the council, 

Stalking into the room, and heard him mutter and murmur ; 

Sometimes it seemed a prayer, and sometimes it sounded like swear- 
ing. : 

Once he had come to the bed, and stood there a moment in silence ; 

Then he had turned away, and said: ‘I will not awake him; 

Let him sleep on, it is best; for what is the use of more talking!’ 530 

Then he extinguished the light, and threw himself down on his pallet, 

Dressed as he was, and ready to start at the break of the morning, — 

Covered himself with the cloak he had worn in his campaigns in 
Flanders, — 

Slept as a soldier sleeps in his bivouac, ready for action. 

But with the dawn he arose; in the twilight Alden beheld him 

Put on his corselet of steel, and all the rest of his armor, 

Buckle about his waist his trusty blade of Damascus, 

Take from the corner his musket, and so stride out of the chamber. 

Often the heart of the youth had burned and yearned to embrace him, 


Often his lips had essayed to speak, imploring for pardon; 540 
All the old friendship came back, with its tender and grateful emo- 
tions ; 


But his pride overmastered the nobler nature within him, — 

Pride, and the sense of his wrong, and the burning fire of the insult. 
So he beheld his friend departing in anger, but spake not, 

Saw him go forth to danger, perhaps to death, and he spake not! 
Then he arose from his bed, and heard what the people were saying, 
Joined in the talk at the door, with Stephen and Richard and Gilbert, 
Joined in the morning prayer, and in the reading of Scripture, 

And, with the others, in haste went hurrying down to the sea-shore, s4g 
Down to the Plymouth Rock, that had been to their feet as a doorstep 
Into a world unknown, — the corner-stone of a nation! 


There with his boat was the Master, already a little impatient 
Lest he should lose the tide, or the wind might shift to the eastward, 
Square-built, hearty, and strong, with an odor of ocean about him, 
Speaking with this one and that, and cramming letters and parcels 
{nto his pockets capacious, and messages mingled together 


224 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 


- ee ot 


Into his narrow brain, till at last he was wholly bewildered. 

Nearer the boat stood Alden, with one foot placed on the gunwale, 

One still firm on the rock, and talking at times with the sailors, 

Seated erect on the thwarts, all ready and eager for starting. 56a 

He too was eager to go, and thus put an end to his anguish, 

Thinking to fly from despair, that swifter than keel is or canvas, 

Thinking to drown in the sea the ghost that would rise and pursue 
him. 

But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the form of Priscilla 

Standing dejected among them, unconscious of all that was passing. 

Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined his intention, 

Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, imploring, and patient, 

That with a sudden revulsion his heart recoiled from its purpose, 

As from the verge of a crag, where one step more is destruction. 

Strange is the heart of man, with its quick, mysterious instinets! 570 

Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated are moments, 

Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of the wall adamantine! 

‘Here Iremain!’ he exclaimed, as he looked at the heavens above him, 

Thanking the Lord whose breath had scattered the mist and the 
madness, 

Wherein, blind and lost, to death he was staggering headlong. 

‘ Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats in the ether above me, 

Seems like a hand that is pointing and beckoning over the ocean. 

There is another hand, that is not so spectral and ghost-like, 

Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping mine for protection. 

Float, O hand of cloud, and vanish away in the ether! 58a 

Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and daunt me; I heed not 

Either your warning or menace, or any omen of evil! 

There is no land so sacred, no air so pure and so wholesome, 

As is the air she breathes, and the soil that is pressed by her foot 
steps. 

Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible presence 

Hover around her forever, protecting, supporting her weakness; 

Yes! as my foot was the first that stepped on this rock at the landing, 

So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last at the leaving!’ 


Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dignified air and important, 
Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the wind and the weather, 59c 
Walked about on the sands, and the people crowded around him 
Saying a few last words, and enforcing his careful remembrance. 
Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were grasping a tiller, 

Into the boat he sprang, and in haste shoved off to his vessel, 

Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry and flurry, 

Glad to be gone from a land of sand and sickness and sorrow, 

Short allowance of victual, and plenty of nothing but Gospel! 

Lost in the sound of the oars was the last farewell of the Pilgrims. 

O strong hearts and true! not one went back in the Mayflower! 

No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to the ploughing! 604 


Soon were heard on board the shouts and songs of the sailors 
Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the ponderous anchor. 


THE COURTSHIP OF. MILES STANDISH = 225 








Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to the west-wind, 

Blowing steady and strong; and the Mayflower sailed from the 
harbor, 

Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving far to the southward 

Island and cape of sand, and the Field of the First Encounter, 

Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the open Atlantic, 

Borne on the send of the sea, and the swelling hearts of the Pilgrims. 


Long in silence they watched the receding sail of the vessel, 

Much endeared to them all, as something living and human ; 610 

Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in a vision prophetic, 

Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of Plymouth 

Said, ‘ Let us pray!’ and they prayed, and thanked the Lord and took 
courage. 

Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of the rock, and above them 

Bowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of death,and their kindred 

Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in the prayer that they 

uttered. 

Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of the ocean 

Gleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in a graveyard ; 

Buried beneath it lay forever all hope of escaping. 

Lo! as they turned to depart, they saw the form of an Indian, 620 

Watching them from the hill; but while they spake with each other, 

Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying ‘ Look!~ he had van- 
ished. 

So they returned to their homes; but Alden lingered a little, 

Musing alone on the shore, and watching the wash of the billows 

Round the base of the rock, and the sparkle and flash of the sunshine, 

Like the spirit of God, moving visibly over the waters. 


VI 
PRISCILLA 


Tus for a while he stood, and mused by the shore of the ocean, 
Thinking of many things, and most of all of Priscilla; 

And as if thought had the power to draw to itself, like the loadstone, 
Whatsoever it touches, by subtile laws of its nature, 630 
Lo! as he turned to depart, Priscilla was standing beside him. 


‘Are you so much offended, you will not speak to me?’ said she. 
*Am I so much to blame, that yesterday, when you were pleading 
Warmly the cause of another, my heart, impulsive and wayward, 
Pleaded your own, and spake out, forgetful perhaps of decorum ? 
Certainly you can forgive me for speaking so frankly, for saying 
What I ought not to have said, yet now I can never unsay it; 

For there are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion, 
That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble 

Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret, 640 
Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together. 


226 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 


——<$$— 





Yesterday I was shocked, when I heard you speak of Miles Standish, 

Praising his virtues, transforming his very defects into virtues, 

Praising his courage and strength, and even his fighting in Flanders, 

As if by fighting alone you could win the heart of a woman, 

Quite overlooking yourself and the rest, in exalting your hero. 

Therefore I spake as I did, by an irresistible impulse. 

You will forgive me, I hope, for the sake of the friendship between us, 

Which is too true and too sacred to be so easily broken !? 

Thereupon answered John Alden, the scholar, the friend of Miles 
Standish: 654 

*I was not angry with you, with myself alone I was angry, 

Seeing how badly I managed the matter I had in my keeping.’ 

‘No!’ interrupted the maiden, with answer prompt and decisive ; 

‘No; you were angry with me, for speaking so frankly and freely. 

It was wrong, I acknowledge; for it is the fate of a woman 

Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, 

Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. 

Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women 


Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers 659 
Running through caverns of darkness, unheard, unseen, and unfruit- 
ful, 


Chafing their channels of stone, with endless and profitless murmurs.’ 

Thereupon answered John Alden, the young man, the lover of women: 

‘Heaven forbid it, Priscilla; and truly they seem to me always 

More like the beautiful rivers that watered the garden of Eden, 

More like the river Euphrates, through deserts of Havilah flowing, 

Filling the land with delight, and memories sweet of the garden !? 

* Ah, by these words, I can see,’ again interrupted the maiden, 

‘How very little you prize me, or care for what I am saying. 

When from the depths of my heart, in pain and with secret misgiving, 

Frankly I speak to you, asking for sympathy only and kindness, 670 

Straightway you take up my words, that are plain and direct and in 
earnest, 

Turn them away from their meaning, and answer with flattering 
phrases. 

This is not right, is not just, is not true to the best that is in you; 

For I know and esteem you, and feel that your nature is noble, 

Lifting mine up to a higher, a more ethereal level. 

Therefore I value your friendship, and feel it perhaps the more keenly 

If you say aught that implies I am only as one among many, 

If yeu make use of those common and complimentary phrases 

Most men think so fine, in dealing and speaking with women, 

But which women reject as insipid, if not as insulting.’ 680 


Mute and amazed was Alden; and listened and looked at Priscilla, 
Thinking he never had seen her more fair, more divine in her beauty. 
He who but yesterday pleaded so glibly the cause of another, 

Stood there embarrassed and silent, and seeking in vain for an answer. 

So the maiden went on, and little divined or imagined 

What was at work in his heart, that made him so awkward and 
speechless. 


THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 229 





‘Let us, then, be what we are,and speak what we think, and in all 
things 

Keep ourselves loyal to truth, and the sacred professions of friend- 
ship. 

It is no secret I tell you, nor am I ashamed to declare it: 

I have liked to be with you, to see you, to speak with you always. 690 

So I was hurt at your words, and a little affronted to hear you 

Urge me to marry your friend, though he were the Captain Miles 
Standish. 

For I must tell you the truth: much more to me is your friendship 

Than all the love he could give, were he twice the hero you think 
him.’ 

Then she extended her hand, and Alden, who eagerly grasped it, 

Felt all the wounds in his heart, that were aching and bleeding so 
sorely, 

Healed by the touch of that hand, and he said, with a voice full of 
feeling: 

‘Yes, we must ever he friends ; and of all who offer you friendship 

Let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest and dearest!’ 


Casting a farewell look at the glimmering sail of the Mayflower, 700 
Distant, but stillin sight, and sinking below the horizon, 
Homeward together they walked, with a strange, indefinite feeling, 
That all the rest had departed and left them alone in the desert. 
But, as they went through the fields in the blessing and smile of the 

sunshine, 

Lighter grew their hearts, and Priscilla said very archly: 
‘Now that our terrible Captain has gone in pursuit of the Indians, 
Where he is happier far than he would be commanding a household, 
You may speak boldly, and tell me of all that happened between 


you, 

When you returned last night, and said how ungrateful you found 
me.’ 

Thereupon answered John Alden, and told her the whole of the 
story, — 710 


Told her his own despair, and the direful wrath of Miles Standish. 

Whereat the maiden smiled, and said between laughing and earnest, 

‘He is a little chimney, and heated hot in a moment!” 

But as he gently rebuked her, and told her how he had suffered, — 

How he had even determined to sail that day in the Mayflower, 

And had remained for her sake, on hearing the dangers that threat. 
ened, — 

All her manner was changed, and she said with a faltering accent, 

‘Truly I thank you for this: how good you have been to me always!’ 


Thus, as a pilgrim devout, who toward Jerusalem journeys, 
Taking three steps in advance, and one reluctantly backward, 720 
Urged by importunate zeal, and withheld by pangs of contrition; 
Slowly but steadily onward, receding yet ever advancing, 
Journeyed this Puritan youth to the Holy Land of his longings, 
Urged by the fervor of love, and withheld by remorseful misgivings. 


228 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 


—— 





Vil 
THE MARCH OF MILES STANDISH 


MEANWHILE the stalwart Miles Standish was marching steadily 
northward, 

Winding through forest and swamp, and along the trend of the sea. 
shore, 

All day long, with hardly a halt, the fire of his anger 

Burning and crackling within, and the sulphurous odor of powder 

Seeming more sweet to his nostrils than all the scents of the forest. 

Silent and moody he went, and much he revolved his discomfort; 730 

He who was used to success, and to easy victories always, 

Thus to be flouted, rejected, and Jaughed to scorn by a maiden, 

Thus to be mocked and betrayed by the friend whom most he had 
trusted! 

Ah! ’t was too much to be borne, and he fretted and chafed in )is 
armor! 


‘T alone am to blame,’ he muttered, ‘for mine was the folly. 
What has a rough old soldier, grown grim and gray in the harness, 
Used to the camp and its ways, to do with the wooing of maidens ? 
’T was but a dream, — let it pass, —let it vanish like so many others! 
What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, and is worthless ; 
Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it away, and hencefor- 

ward 240 

Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and wooer of dangers!’ 
Thus he revolved in his mind his sorry defeat and discomfort, 
While he was marching by day or lying at night in the forest, 
Looking up at the trees, and the constellations beyond them. 


After a three days’ march he came to an Indian encampment 
Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the sea and the forest; 
Women at work by the tents, and warriors, horrid with war-paint, 
Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking together ; 

Who, when they saw from afar the sudden approach of the white men. 
Saw the flash of the sun on breastplate and sabre and musket, 750 
Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from among them advancing, 
Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs as a present; 
Friendship was in their looks, but in their hearts there was hatred. 
Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers, gigantic in stature, 
Iluge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, king of Bashan ; 
One was Pecksuot named, and the other was called Wattawamat. 
Round their necks were suspended their knives in scabbards of wam 
pum, 
Two-edged, trenchant knives, with points as sharp as a needle. 
Other arms had they none, for they were cunning and crafty. 
“Welcome, English!’ they said, — these words they had learned from 
the traders 76a 
Touching at times on the coast, to barter and chaffer for peltries. 
Then in their native tongue they began to parley wit Standish, 


THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH = 229 


- 








Through his guide and interpreter, Hobomok, friend of the white man, 

Begging for blankets and knives, but mostly for muskets and powder, 

Kept by the white man, they said, concealed, with the plague, in his 
cellars, 

Ready to be let loose, and destroy his brother the red man! 

But when Standish refused, and said he would give them the Bible, 

Suddenly changing their tone, they began to boast and to bluster, 

Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride in front of the other, 

And, with a lofty demeanor, thus vauntingly spake to the Captain : 770 

‘Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of the Captain, 

Angry is he in his heart; but the heart of the brave Wattawamat 

Is not afraid at the sight. He was not born of a woman, 

But on a mountain at night, from an oak-tree riven by lightning, 

Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his weapons about him, 

Shouting, “ Who is there here to fight with the brave Wattawamat?”? 

Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the blade on his left 
hand, 

Held it aloft and displayed a woman’s face on the handle; 

Saying, with bitter expression and look of sinister meaning: 

*Thave another at home, with the face of a man on the handle; 780 

By and by they shall marry; and there will be plenty of children!’ 


Then stood Pecksuot forth, self-vaunting, insulting Miles Standish: 
While with his fingers he patted the knife that hung at his bosom, 
Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it back, as he muttered, 
‘By and by it shall see; it shall eat; ah, ha! but shall speak not! 
This is the mighty Captain the white men have sent to destroy us! 
He is a little man; let him go and work with the women!’ 


Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and figures of Indians 

Peeping and creeping about from bush to tree in the forest, 

Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on their bow-strings, 790 

Drawing about him still closer and closer the net of their ambush, 

But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and treated them smoothly ; 

So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the days of the fathers. 

But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the taunt, and the insult, 

All the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh and of Thurston de Standish, 

Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in the veins of his temples. 

Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and, snatching his knife from its 
seabbard, 

Plunged it into his heart, and, reeling backward, the savage 

Fell with his face to the sky, and a fiendlike fierceness upon it. 

Straight there arose from the forest the awful sound of the war- 
whoop, 800 

And, like a flurry of snow on the whistling wind of December, 

Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of feathery arrows. 

Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the cloud came the lightning, 

Out of the lightning thunder; and death unseen ran before it. 

Frightened the savages fled for shelter in swamp and in thicket, 

Hotly pursued and beset; but their sachem, the brave Wattawamat, 

Fled not; he was dead. Unswerving and swift had a bullet 


230 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 








——_ 


Passed through his brain, and he fell with both hands clutching the 
greensward, 
Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the land of his fathers. 


There on the flowers of the meadow the warriors lay, and above 

them, . 810 

Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobomok, friend of the white man. 

Smiling at length he exclaimed to the stalwart Captain of Plymouth :— 

*‘Pecksuot bragged very loud of his courage, his strength, and hig 
stature, — 

Mocked the great Captain, and called him a little man; but I see now 

Big enough have you been to lay him speechless before you!’ 


Thus the first battle was fought and won by the stalwart Miles 

Standish. 

When the tidings thereof were brought to the village of Plymouth, 

And as a trophy of war the head of the brave Wattawamat 

Seowled from the roof of the fort, which at once was a church anda 
fortress, 

All who beheld it rejoiced, and prais2d the Lord,and took courage. 820 

Only Priscilla averted her face from this spectre of terror, 

Thanking God in her heart that she had not married Miles Standish; 

Shrinking, fearing almost, lest, coming home from his battles, 

He should lay claim to her hand, as the prize and reward of his valor. 


Vill 
THE SPINNING-WHEEL 


MONTH after month passed away, and in Autumn the ships of the 
merchants 

Came with kindred and friends, with cattle and corn for the Pilgrims. 

All in the village was peace;.the men were intent on their labors, 

Busy with hewing and building, with garden-plot and with merestead, 

Busy with breaking the glebe, and mowing the grass in the meadows, 

Searching the sea for its fish, and hunting the deer in the forest. 83a 

All in the village was peace; but at times the rumor of warfare 

Filled the air with alarm, and the apprehension of danger. 

Bravely the stalwart Standish was scouring the land with his forces, 

Waxing valiant in fight and defeating the alien armies, 

Till his name had become a sound of fear to the nations. 

Anger was still in his heart, but at times the remorse and contrition 

Which in all noble natures succeed the passionate outbreak, 

Came like a rising tide, that encounters the rush of a river, 

Staying its current awhile, but making it bitter and brackish. 


Meanwhile Alden at home had built him a new habitation, 84¢ 
Solid, substantial, of timber rough-hewn from the firs of the forest. 
Wooden-harred was the door, and the roof was covered with rushes; 
Laiticed the winaows were, and the window-panes were of paper, 


THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 233 








Oiled to admit the light, while wind and rain were excluded. 

There too he dug a well, and around it planted an orchard: 

Still may be seen to this day some trace of the well and the orchard. 

Close to the house was the stall, where, safe and secure from annoy: 
ance, 

Raghorn, the snow-white bull, that had fallen to Alden’s allotment 

Tn the division of cattle, might ruminate in the night-time 

Over the pastures he cropped, made fragrant by sweet pennyroyal. 850 


Oft when his labor was finished, with eager feet would the dreamer 

Follow the pathway that ran through the woods to the house of 
Priscilla, 

Led by illusions romantic and subtile deceptions of fancy, 

Pleasure disguised as duty, and love in the semblance of friendship. 

Ever of her he thought, when he fashioned the walls of his dwelling; 

Ever of her he thought, when he delved in the soil of his garden; 

Ever of her he thought, when he read in his Bible on Sunday 

Praise of the virtuous woman, as she is described in the Proverbs, — 

How the heart of her husband doth safely trust in her always, 

How all the days of her life she will do him good, and not evil, 860 

How she seeketh the wool and the flax and worketh with gladness, 

How she layeth her hand to the spindle and holdeth the distaff, 

How she is not afraid of the snow for herself or her household, 

Knowing her household are clothed with the scarlet cloth of her 
weaving ! 


So as she sat at her wheel one afternoon in the Autumn, 

Alden, who opposite sat, and was watching her dexterous fingers, 

As if the thread she was spinning were that of his life and his fortune, 

After a pause in their talk, thus spake to the sound of the spindle. 

*Truly, Priscilla,’ he said, ‘when I see you spinning and spinning, 

Never idle a moment, but thrifty and thoughtful of others, 870 

Suddenly you are transformed, are visibly changed in a moment; 

You are no longer Priscilla, but Bertha the Beautiful Spinner.’ 

Here the light foot on the treadle grew swifter and swifter; the 
spindle 

Mttered an angry snarl, and the thread snapped short in her fingers; 

While the impetuous speaker, not heeding the mischief, continued: 

‘You are the beautiful Bertha, the spinner, the queen of Helvetia; 

She whose story I read at a stall in the streets of Southampton, 

Who, as she rode on her palfrey, o’er valley and meadow and mountain, 

Ever was spinning her thread from a distaff fixed to her saddle. 

She was so thrifty and good, that her name passed into a proverb. 880 

So shall it be with your own, when the spinning-wheel shall no longer 

Hum in the house of the farmer, and fill its chambers with music. 

Then shall the mothers, reproving, relate how it was in their child 
hood, 

Praising the good old times, and the days of Priscilla the spinner!’ 

Straight uprose from her wheel the beautiful Puritan maiden, 

Pleased with the praise of her thrift from him whose praise was the 
sweetest, 


232 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 





Drew from the reel on the table a snowy skein of her spinning, 

Thus making answer, meanwhile, to the flattering phrases of Alden: 

‘Come, you must not be idle; if Iam a pattern for housewives, 

Show yourself equally worthy of being the model of husbands. 89a 

Hold this skein on your hands, while I wind it, ready for knitting ; 

Then who knows but hereafter, when fashions have changed and the 
manners, 

Fathers may talk to their sons of the good old times of John Alden!?® 

Thus, with a jest and a laugh, the skein on his hands she adjusted, 

He sitting awkwardly there, with his arms extended before him, 

She standing graceful, erect, and winding the thread from his fingers, 

Sometimes chiding a little his clumsy manner of holding, 

Sometimes touching his hands, as she disentangied expertly 

Twist or knot in the yarn, unawares — for how could she help it ?— 

Sending electrical thrills through every nerve in his body. goa 


Lo! in the midst of this scene, a breathless messenger entered, 
Bringing in hurry and heat the terrible news from the village. 
Yes; Miles Standish was dead!—an Indian had brought them the 

tidings, — 

Slain by a poisoned arrow, shot down in the front of the battle, 
Into an ambush beguiled, cut off with the whole of his forces; 
All the town would be burned, and all the people be murdered! 
Such were the tidings of evil that burst on the hearts of the hearers. 
Silent and statue-like stood Priscilla, her face looking backward 
Still at the face of the speaker, her arms uplifted in horror ; 
But John Alden, upstarting, as if the barb of the arrow gia 
Piercing the heart of his friend had struck his own, and had sundered 
Once and forever the bonds that held him bound as a captive, 
Wild with excess of sensation, the awful delight of his freedom, 
Mingled with pain and regret, unconscious of what he was doing, 
Clasped, almost with a groan, the motionless form of Priscilla, 
Pressing her close to his heart, as forever his own, and exclaiming: 
‘Those whom the Lord hath united, let no man put them asunder!’ 


Even as rivulets twain, from distant and separate sources, 
Seeing each other afar, as they leap from the rocks, and pursuing 
Each one its devious path, but drawing nearer and nearer, 924 
Rush together at last, at their trysting-place in the forest; 
So these lives that had run thus far in separate channels, 
Coming in sight of each other, then swerving and flowing asunder, 
Parted by barriers strong, but drawing nearer and nearer, 
Rushed together at last, and one was lost in the other. 


IX » 
THE WEDDING-DAY 


ForTH from the curtain of clouds, from the tent of purple and scarlet, 
Issued the sun, the great High-Priest, in his garments resplendent, 


THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 233 


—_—— 


Holiness unto the Lord, in letters of light, on his forehead, 

Round the hem of his robe the golden bells and pomegranates. 
Blessing the world he came, and the bars of vapor beneath him 930 
Gleamed like a grate of brass, and the sea at his feet was a laver |! 


This was the wedding morn of Priscilla the Puritan maiden. 
Friends were assembled together; the Elder and Magistrate also 
Graced the scene with their presence, and stood like the Law and the 

Gospel, 

One with the sanction of earth and one with the blessing of heaven. 
Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of Ruth and of Boaz. 
Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the words of betrothal, 
Taking each other for husband and wife in the Magistrate’s presence, 
After the Puritan way, and the laudable custom of Holland. 


_ Fervently then, and devoutly, the excellent Elder of Plymouth 940 
Prayed for the hearth and the home, that were founded that day in 
affection, 


Speaking of life and of death, and imploring Divine benedictions. 


Lo! when the service was ended, a form appeared on the threshold, 
Clad in armor of steel, a Sombre and sorrowful figure! 
Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the strange apparition? 
Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her face on his shoulder? 
Is it a phantom of air, — a bodiless, spectral illusion ? 
Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to forbid the betrothal ? 
Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited, unweleomed; 


Over its clouded eyes there had passed at times an expression 950 
Softening the gloom and revealing the warm heart hidden beneath 
them, 


As when across the sky the driving rack of the rain-cloud 

Grows for a moment thin, and betrays the sun by its brightness. 

Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its lips, but was silent, 

As if an iron will had mastered the fleeting intention. 

But when were ended the troth and the prayer and the last benedic- 
tion, 

Into the room it strode, and the people beheld with amazement 

Bodily there in his armor Miles Standish, the Captain of Plymouth! 

Grasping the bridegroom’s hand, he said with emotion, ‘ Forgive me! 

I have been angry and hurt, —too long have I cherished the feel- 
ing; 960 

I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank God! it is ended. 

Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the veins of Hugh Standish, 

Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning for error. 

Never so much as now was Miles Standish the friend of John Alden.’ 

Thereupon answered the bridegroom: ‘ Let all be forgotten between 
us, — 

All save the dear old friendship, and that shall grow older and 
dearer !? 

Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing, saluted Priscilla, 

Grayely, and after the manner of old-fashioned gentry in England, 

Something of camp and of court, of town and of country, commingled, 


234 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH 


w 


Wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly lauding her husband. 979 
Then he said with a smile: ‘I should have remembered the adage, — 
If you would be well served, you must serve yourself; and moreover, 
No man can gather cherries in Kent at the season of Christmas !? 


Great was the people’s amazement, and greater yet their rejoicing, 

Thus to behold once more the sunburnt face of their Captain, 

Whom they had mourned as dead; and they gathered and crowded 
about him, 

Eager to see him and hear him, forgetful of bride and of bridegroom, 

Questioning, answering, laughing, and each interrupting the other, 

Till the good Captain declared, being quite overpowered and bewil- 
dered, 

He had rather by far break into an Indian encampment, 980 

Than come again to a wedding to which he had not been invited. 


Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth and stood with the bride at 

the doorway, 

Breathing the perfumed air of that warm and beautiful morning. 

Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely and sad in the sunshine, 

Lay extended before them the land of toil and privation ; 

There were the graves of the dead, and the barren waste of the sea- 
shore, 

There the familiar fields, the groves of pine, and the meadows ; 

But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed as the Garden of Eden, 

Filled with the presence of God, whose voice was the sound of the 
ocean. 


Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise and stir of depar- 


ture, 990 
Friends coming forth from the house, and impatient of longer delay- 
ing, 
Each with his plan for the day, and the work that was left uncom- 
pleted. 


Then froma stall near at hand, amid exclamations of wonder, 

Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so proud of Priscilla, 

Bronght out his snow-white bull, obeying the hand of its master, 

Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its nostrils, 

Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed for a saddle. 

She should not walk, he said, through the dust and heat of the noon- 
day ; 

Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along like a peasant. 

Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the others, 1000 

Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the hand of her husband 

Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her palfrey. 

‘ Nothing is wanting now,’ he said with a smile, ‘ but the distaff ; 

Then you would be in truth my queen, my beautiful Bertha!’ 


Onward the bridal procession now moved to their new habitation, 
Happy husband and wife, and friends conversing together. 
Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they crossed the ford in the forest, 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE 


235 





; Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream of love, through its 


bosom, 


Tremulous, floating in air, o’er the depths of the azure abysses. 
Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splen- 


dors, 


IO1o 


Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches above them sus- 


pended, 


Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir- 


tree, 


Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of Eshcol. 
Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral ages, 

Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac, 
Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always, 

Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers. 

So through the Plymouth woods passed onward the bridal procession. 


DIRVSeOry; PASSAGE 


.. . come i gru van cantando lor lai, 
Facendo in aer di sé lunga riga. 


DANTE. 


FLIGHT THE FIRST 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE 


Buiacx shadows fall 

From the lindens tall, 

That lift aloft their massive wall 
Against the southern sky ; 


And from the realms 

Of the shadowy elms 

A tide-like darkness overwhelms 
The fields that round us lie. 


But the night is fair, 

And everywhere 

A warm, soft vapor fills the air, 
And distant sounds seem near ; 

And above, in the light 

Of the star-lit night, 

Swift birds of passage wing their 

flight 

Through the dewy atmosphere. 


T hear the beat 
Of their pinions fleet, 


As from the land of snow and 
sleet 
They seek a southern lea. 


T hear the cry 
Of their voices high 
Falling dreamily through the 
sky, 
But their forms I cannot see. 


Oh, say not so! 

Those sounds that flow 

In murmurs of delight and woe 
Come not from wings of birds. 


They are the throngs 
Of the poet’s songs, 
Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, 
and wrongs, 
The sound of wingéd words. 


This is the ery 

Of souls, that high 

On toiling, beating pinions, fly, 
Seeking a warmer clime. 


236 





From their distant flight 
Through realms of light 
It falls into our world of night, 
With the murmuring sound of 
rhyme. 


PROMETHEUS 
OR THE POET’S FORETHOUGHT 


Or Prometheus, how undaunted 
On Olympus’ shining bastions 
His audacious foot he planted, 
Myths are told and songs are 
chanted, 
Full of promptings and sugges- 
tions. 


Beautiful is the tradition 
Of that flight through heavenly 
portals, 
The old classic superstition 
Of the theft and the transmission 
Of the fire of the Immortals! 


First the deed of noble daring, 
Born of heavenward aspiration, 
Then the fire with mortals shar- 

ing, 
Then the vulture,—the despair- 
ing 
Cry of pain on crags Caucasian. 


All is but a symbol painted 
Of the Poet, Prophet, Seer; 
Only those are crowned and 
sainted 
Who with grief have been ac- 
quainted, 
Making nations nobler, freer. 


In their feverish exultations, 
In their triumph and their yearn- 
ing, 
In their passionate pulsations, 
In their words among the nations, 
The Promethean fire is burning. 


Shall it, then, be unavailing, 
All this toil for human culture ? 


BIRDS OF 


PASSAGE 


7 o_o! 


Through the cloud-rack, dark and 
trailing, 
Must they see above them sail. 
ing 
O’er life’s barren crags the vul- 
ture ? 


Such a fate as this was Dante’s, 
By defeat and exile inaddened; 
Thus were Milton and Cervantes, 
Nature’s priests and Corybantes, 
By affliction touched and sad- 
dened. 


But the glories so transcendent 
That around their memories 
cluster, 
And, on all their steps attendant, 
Make their darkened lives resplen- 
dent 
With such gleams of inward 
lustre! 


All the melodies mysterious, 
Through the dreary darkness 
chanted ; 
Thoughts in attitudes imperious, 
Voices soft, and deep, and serious, 
Words that whispered, songs 
that haunted ! 


All the soul in rapt suspension, 
All the quivering, palpitating 

Chords of life in utmost tension, 

With the fervor of invention, 
With the rapture of creating! 


Ah, Prometheus! heaven-scaling! 
In such hours of exultation 
Even the faintest heart, unquail 
ing, 
Might behold the vulture sailing 
Round the cloudy crags Cauca. 
sian! 


Though to all there be not given 
Strength for such sublime en 
deavor, 
Thus to seale the walls of heaven, 
And to leaven with fiery leaven, 
All the hearts of men forever ; 


EPIMETHEUS 


237 





Yet all bards, whose hearts un- 
blighted 
Honor and believe the presage, 
Hold aloft their torches lighted, 
Gleaming through the realms be- 
nighted, 
As they onward bear the mes- 
sage! 


EPIMETHEUS 
OR THE POET’S AFTERTHOUGHT 


HAVE I dreamed ? or was it real, 
What I saw as in a vision, 
When to marches hymeneal 
In the land of the Ideal 
Moved my thought o’er Fields 
Elysian ? 


What! are these the guests whose 
glances 
Seemed like sunshine gleaming 
round me ? 
These the wild, bewildering fancies, 
That with dithyrambic dances 
As with magic circles bound me ? 


Ah! how cold are their caresses! 
Pallid cheeks, and haggard bos- 


oms! 

Spectral gleam their snow-white 
dresses, 

And from loose, dishevelled 
tresses 


Fall the hyacinthine blossoms! 


O my songs! whose winsome mea- 
sures 
Filled my heart with secret rap- 
ture ! 
Jhildren of my golden leisures! 
Must even your delights and plea- 
sures 
Fade and perish with the cap- 
ture ? 


fair they seemed, those songs 
sonorous, 
When they came tome unbidden: 


Voices single, and in chorus, 
Like the wild birds singing o’er 
us 
In the dark of branches hid. 
den. 


Disenchantment! Disillusion! 
Must each noble aspiration 
Come at last to this conclusion, 
Jarring discord, wild confusion, 

Lassitude, renunciation ? 


Not with steeper fall nor faster, 
From the sun’s serene domin- 
ions, 
Not through brighter realms nor 
vaster, 
In swift ruin and disaster, 
Icarus fell with shattered pin- 
ions ! 


Sweet Pandora! dear Pandora! 
Why did mighty Jove create 
thee 
Coy as Thetis, fair as Flora, 
Beautiful as young Aurora, 
If to win thee is to hate thee ? 


No, not hate thee! for this feel. 
ing 
Of unrest and long resistance 
Is but passionate appealing, 
A prophetic whisper stealing 
O’er the chords of our existence. 


Him whom thou dost once enamor, 
Thou, beloved, never leavest; 
In life’s discord, strife, and clamor, 
Still he feels thy spell of gla. 

mour ; 
Him of Hope thou ne’er bereav- 
est. 


Weary hearts by thee are lifted, 
Struggling souls by thee are 
strengthened, 
Clouds of fear asunder rifted, 
Truth from falsehood cleansed and 
sifted, 
Lives, like days in 
lengthened ! 


summer, 


238 





Therefore art thou ever dearer, 
O my Sibyl, my deceiver! 
For thou makest each mystery 
clearer, 
And the unattained seems nearer, 
When thou fillest my heart with 
fever! 


Muse of all the Gifts and Graces! 
Though the fields around us 
wither, 
There are ampler realms and 
spaces, 
Where no foot has left its traces: 
Let us turn and wander thither! 


THE LADDER OF SAINT 
AUGUSTINE 
SAINT AUGUSTINE! well hast 
thou said, 
That of our vices we can frame 
A ladder, if we will but tread 
Beneath our feet each deed of 
shame! 


All common things, each day’s 
events, 
That withthe hour beginandend, 
Our pleasures and our discontents, 
Are rounds by which we may as- 
cend. 


The low desire, the base design, 
That makes another’s virtues 
less ; 
The revel of the ruddy wine, 
And all oceasions of excess; 


The longing for ignoble things; 
The strife for triumph more than 


truth : 
The hardening of the heart, that 
brings 
Irreverence for the dreams of 
youth ; 


All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds, 
That have their root in thoughts 
of ill; 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE 





Whatever hinders or impedes 
The action of the nobler will; — 


All these must first be trampled 
down 
Beneath our feet, if we would 
gain 
In the bright fields of fair renown 
The right of eminent domain. 


We have not wings, we cannot 


soar ; 
But we have feet to scale and 
climb 
By slow degrees, by more and 
more, 


The cloudy summits of our time. 


The mighty pyramids of stone 
That wedge-like cleave the de- 
sert airs, 
When nearer seen, 
known, 
Are but gigantic flights of stairs. 


and better 


The distant mountains, that up-: 
rear 
Their solid bastions to the skies, 
Are crossed by pathways, that ap- 
“pear 
As we to higher levels rise. 


The heights by great men reached 
and kept 
Were not attained by sudden 
flight, 
But they, while their companions 
slept, 
Were toiling upward in the night. 


Standing on what too long we bore 
With shoulders bent and down. 
cast eyes, 
We may discern — unseen before — 
A path to higher destinies, 


Nor deem the irrevocable Past 
As wholly wasted, wholly vain, 
If, rising on its wrecks, at last 
To something nobler we at 
tain. 


THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS 


239 





THE PHANTOM SHIP 


tn Mather’s Magnalia Christi, 
Of the old colonial time, 

May be found in prose the legend 
That is here set down in rhyme. 


A ship sailed from New Haven, 
And the keen and frosty airs, 
That filled her sails at parting, 
Were heavy with good men’s 
prayers. 


*O Lord! if it be thy pleasure ’— 
Thus prayed the old divine — 
*To bury our friends in the ocean, 

Take them, for they are thine!’ 


But Master Lamberton muttered, 
And under his breath said he, 
‘This ship is so crank and walty, 
I fear our grave she will be!? 


And the ships that came from Eng- 
land, 
When the winter months were 
gone, 
Brought no tidings of this vessel 
Nor of Master Lamberton. 


This put the people to praying 
That the Lord would let them 
hear 
What in his greater wisdom 
He had done with friends so dear. 


And at last their prayers were an- 
swered : 
It was in the month of June, 
An hour before the sunset 
Of a windy afternoon, 


When, steadily steering landward, 
A ship was seen below, 
And they knew it was Lamberton, 
Master, 
Who sailed so long ago. 


On she came, with a cloud of can- 
vas, 
Right against the wind that blew, 


Until the eye could distinguish 
The faces of the crew. 


Then fell her straining topmasts, 
Hanging tangled in the shrouds, 
And her sails were loosened and 
lifted, 
And blown away like clouds. 


And the masts, with all their rig- 
ging, 
Fell slowly, one by one, 
And the hulk dilated and vanished, 
As a sea-mist in the sun! 


And the people who saw this mar- 
vel 
Each said unto his friend, 
That this was the mould of their 
vessel, 
And thus her tragic end. 


And the pastor of the village 
Gave thanks to God in prayer, 
That, to quiet their troubled 

spirits, 
He had sent this Ship of Air. 


THE WARDEN OF THE 
CINQUE PORTS 


A MIST was driving down the 
British Channel, 
The day was just begun, 
And through the window-panes, on 
floor and panel, 
Streamed the red autumn sun. 


It glanced on flowing flag and rip. 
pling pennon, 
And the white sails of ships; 
And, from the frowning rampart, 
the black cannon 
Hailed it with feverish lips. 


Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, 
Hithe, and Dover 
Were all alert that day, 
To see the French war-steamers 
speeding over, 
When the fog cleared away. 


240 BIRDS OF 


Sullen and silent, and like couch- 
ant lions, 
Their cannon, 
night, 
Holding their breath, had watched, 
in grim defiance, 
The sea-coast opposite. 


through the 


And now they roared at drum-beat 
from their stations 
On every citadel ; 
Each answering each, with morn- 
ing salutations, 
That all was well. 


And down the coast, all taking up 
the burden, 
Replied the distant forts, 
As if to summon from his sleep 
the Warden 
And Lord of the Cinque Ports. 


Him shall no sunshine from the 
fields of azure, 
No drum- beat 
wall, 
No morning gun from the black 
fort’s embrasure, 
Awaken with its call! 


from the 


No more, surveying with an eye 
impartial 
The long line of the coast, 
Shall the gaunt figure of the old 
Field Marshal 
Be seen upon his post! 


For in the night, unseen, a single 
warrior, 
In sombre harness mailed, 
Dreaded of man, and surnamed 
the Destroyer, 
The rampart wall had sealed. 


He passed into the chamber of the 
sleeper, 
The dark and silent room, 
And as he entered, darker grew, 
and deeper, 
The silence and the gloom. 


PASSAGE 


—= 


He did not pause to parley or dis- 
semble, 
But smote the Warden hoar ; 
Ah! what a blow! that made all 
England tremble 
And groan from shore to 
shore. 
Meanwhile, without, the surly 
cannon waited, 


The sun rose bright o’ere 
head; 

Nothing in Nature’s aspect inti- 
mated 


That a great man was dead. 


HAUNTED HOUSES 


ALL houses wherein men have 
lived and died 
Are haunted houses. 
the open doors 
The harmless phantoms on their 
errands glide, 
With feet that make ho sound 
upon the floors. 


Through 


We meet them at the doorway, on 
the stair, 
Along the passages they come 
and go, 
Impalpable 
air, 
A sense of something moving to 
and fro. 


impressions on the 


There are more guests at table 
than the hosts 
Invited; the illuminated hall 
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive 
ghosts, 
As silent as the pictures on the 
wall. : 


The stranger at my fireside can- 
not see 
The forms I see, nor hear the 
sounds I hear; 


IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE 241 





He but perceives what is; while 
unto me 
All that has been is visible and 
clear. 


We have notitle-deeds to house or 
lands ; 
Owners and occupants of earlier 
dates 
From graves forgotten stretch 
their dusty hands, 
And hold in mortmain still their 
old estates. 


The spirit-world around this world 
of sense 
Floats like an atmosphere, and 
everywhere 
Watts through these earthly mists 
and vapors dense 
A vital breath of more ethereal 
air. 


Our little lives are kept in equi- 
poise 
By opposite attractions and 
desires; 
The struggle of the instinct that 
enjoys, 
And the more noble instinct that 
aspires. 


Yhese perturbations, this perpet- 
ual jar 
Of earthly wants and aspirations 
high, 
Oome from the influence of an un- 
seen Star, 
An undiscovered planet in our 
sky. 


And as the moon from some dark 
gate of cloud 
Throws o’er the sea a floating 
bridge of light, 
Across whose trembling planks 
our fancies crowd 
Into the realm of mystery and 
night, — 


So from the world of spirits there 
descends 
A bridge of light, connecting it 
with this, 
Over whose unsteady floor, that 
Sways and bends, 
Wander our thoughts above the 
dark abyss. 


IN THE CHURCHYARD AT 
CAMBRIDGE 


In the village churchyard she 
lies, 
Dust is in her beautiful eyes, 
No more she breathes, nor feels, 
nor stirs ; 
At her feet and at her head 
Lies a slave to attend the dead, 
But their dust is white as hers. 


Was she a lady of high degree, 
So much in love with the vanity 
And foolish pomp of this world 
of ours ? 
Or was it Christian charity, 
And lowliness and humility, 
The richest and rarest of all 
dowers ? 


Whoshalltellus? Noone speaks; 
No color shoots into those cheeks, 
Either of anger or of pride, 
At the rude question we have 
asked; 
Nor will the mystery be unmasked 
By those who are sleeping at her 
side, 


He“after?-- And do you think to 
look 
QG che terrible pages of that Book 
To find her failings, faults, and 
errors? 
Ah, you will then have other cares, 
In your own shortcomings and 
despairs, 
In your own secret sins and ter- 
rors! 


242 


_ 


THE EMPEROR’S BIRD’S- 


NEST 
OncE the Emperor Charles of 
Spain, 
With his swarthy, grave com- 
manders, 
I forget in what campaign, 
Long besieged, in mud and rain, 
Some old frontier town of Flan- 
ders. 


Up and down the dreary camp, 

In great boots of Spanish leather, 
Striding with a measured tramp, 
These Hidalgos, dull and damp, 

Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed 

the weather. 


Thus as to and fro they went 
Over upland and through hol- 
low, 
Giving their impatience vent, 
Perched upon the Emperor’s tent, 
In her nest, they spied a swallow. 


Yes, it was a swallow’s nest, 
Built of clay and hair of horses, 
Mane, or tail, or dragoon’s crest, 
Found on hedge-rows east and 
west, 
_ After skirmish of the forces. 


Then an old Hidalgo said, 

As hetwirled his gray mustachio, 
‘Sure this swallow overhead 
Thinks the Emperor’s tent a shed, 

And the Emperor but a Macho!’ 


Hearing his imperial name 
Coupled with those words of 
malice, 
Half in anger, half in shame, 
Forth the great campaigner came 
Slowly from his canvas palace. 


‘Let no hand the bird molest,’ 
Said he solemnly, ‘ nor hurt her!’ 
Adding then, by way of jest, 
’Golondrina is my guest, 
*T is the wife of some deserter !’ 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE 





Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft, 
Through the camp was spread 
the rumor, 
And the soldiers, as they quaffed 
Flemish beer at dinner, laughed 
At the Emperor’s pleasant hu- 
mor. 


So unharmed and unafraid 
Sat the swallow stilland brooded, 
Till the constant cannonade 
Through the walls a breach had 
made, 
And the siege was thus con- 
cluded. 


Then the army, elsewhere bent, 
Struck its tents as if disbanding, 

Only not the Emperor’s tent, 

For he ordered, ere he went, 
Very curtly, ‘ Leave it standing !* 


So it stood there all alone, 
Loosely flapping, torn and tat- 
tered, 
Till the brood was fledged and 
flown, 
Singing o’er those walls of stone 
Which the cannon-shot had shat- 
tered. 


THE TWO ANGELS 


Two angels, one of Life and one 
of Death, 
Passed o’er our village as the 
morning broke; 
The dawn was on their faces, and 
beneath, 
The sombre houses hearsed with 
plumes of smoke. 


Their attitude and aspect were 
the same, 
Alike their features and their 
robes of white ; 
But one was crowned with ama- 
ranth, as with flame, 
And one with asphodels, like 
flakes of light. 


DAYLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT 





243 





Ysaw them pause on their celestial 
way. 
Then said I, with deep fear and 
doubt oppressed, 
Beat not so loud, my heart, lest 
thou betray 
The place where thy beloved are 
at rest!’ 


And he who wore the crown of 
asphodels, 
Descending, at my door began 
to knock, 
And my soul sank within me, as 
in wells 
The waters sink before an earth- 
quake’s shock. 


IT recognized the nameless agony, 
The terror and the tremor and 
the pain, 
That oft before had filled or 
haunted me, 
And now returned with three- 
fold strength again. 


The door I opened to my heavenly 
guest, 
And listened, for I thought I 
heard God’s voice; 
And, knowing whatsoe’er he sent 
was best, 
Dared neither to lament nor to 
rejoice. 


Then with a smile, that filled the 
house with light, 
‘My errand is not Death, but 
Life, he said; 
And ere I answered, passing out 
of sight, 
On his celestial embassy he sped. 


’T was at thy door, O friend! and 
not at mine, 
The angel with the amaranthine 
wreath, 
Pausing, descended,and with voice 
divine 
Whispered a word that had a 
sound like Death. 


Then fell upon the house a sudden 
gloom, 
A shadow on those features fair 
and thin; 
And softly, from that hushed and 
darkened room, 
Two angels issued, where but 
one went in. 


Allis of God! 
hand, 
The mists collect, the rain falls 
thick and loud, 
Till, with a smile of light on sea 
and land, 
Lo! he looks back from the de- 
parting cloud. 


If he but wave his 


Angels of Life and Death alike are 
his ; 
Without his leave they pass no 
threshold o’er; 
Who, then, would wish or dare, be- 
lieving this, 
Against his messengers to shut 
the door? 


DAYLIGHT AND MOON- 
LIGHT 


In broad daylight, and at noon, 
Yesterday I saw the moon 
Sailing high, but faint and white, 
As a school-boy’s paper kite. 


In broad daylight, yesterday, 
I read a Poet’s mystic lay; 
And it seemed to me at most 
As a phantom, or a ghost. 


But at length the feverish day 
Like a passion died away, 

And the night, serene and still, 
Fell on village, vale, and hill. 


Then the moon, in all her pride, 
Like a spirit glorified, 

Filled and overflowed the night 
With revelations of her light. 


244 


And the Poet’s song again 

Passed like music through my 
brain ; 

Night interpreted to me 

All its grace and mystery. 


THE JEWISH CEMETERY 
AT NEWPORT 


How strange itseems! These He- 
brews in their graves, 
Close by the street of this fair 
seaport town, 
Silent beside the never - silent 
waves, 
At rest in all this moving up and 
down! 


The trees are white with dust, that 
o’er their sleep 
Wave their broad curtains in the 
south-wind’s breath, 
While underneath these leafy tents 
they keep 
The long, mysterious Exodus of 
Death. 


And these sepulchral stones, so 
old and brown, 
That pave with level flags their 
burial-place, 
Seem like the tablets of the Law, 
thrown down 
And broken by Moses at the 
mountain’s base. 


The very names recorded here are 
strange, 
Of foreign accent, and of differ- 
ent climes ; 
Alvares and Rivera interchange 
With Abraham and Jacob of old 
times. 


Blessed be God, for he created 
Death !’ 

The mourners said, ‘and Death 
is rest and peace ;’ 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE 





Then added, in the certainty of 
faith, 

-* And giveth Life that nevermore 
shall cease.’ 


Closed are the portals of their 
Synagogue, 
No Psalms of David now the si- 
lence break, 
No Rabbi reads the ancient De- 
calogue 
In the grand dialect the Prophets 
spake. 


Gone are the living, but the dead 
remain, 
And not neglected; for a hand 
unseen, 
Scattering its bounty, like a sum. 
mer rain, 
Still keeps their graves and their 
remembrance green. 


How came they here? What burst 
of Christian hate, 
What persecution, merciless and 


blind, 
Drove o’er the sea—that desert 
desolate — 
These Ishmaels and Hagars of 
mankind ? 


They lived in narrow streets and 
lanes obscure, 
Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk 
and mire; 
Taught in the school of patience 
to endure 
The life of anguish and the death 
of fire. 


All their lives long, with the un. 
leavened bread 
And bitter herbs of exile and its 
fears, 
The wasting famine of the heart 
they fed, 
And slaked its thirst with marah 
of their tears. 


OLIVER BASSELIN 


= 


Anathema maranatha! was the 
cry 
That rang from town to town, 
from street to street : 
At every gate the accursed Mor- 
decai 
Was mocked and jeered, and 


spurned by Christian feet. 


Pride and humiliation hand in 
hand 
Walked with them through the 
world where’er they went ; 
Trampled and beaten were they 
as the sand, 
And yet unshaken as the conti- 
nent. 


For in the background figures 
vague and vast 
Of patriarchs and of prophets 
rose sublime, 
And all the great traditions of the 
Past 
They saw reflected in the com- 
ing time. 


And thus forever with reverted 
look 
The mystic volume of the world 
they read, 
Spelling it backward, like a He- 
brew book, 
Till life became a Legend of the 
Dead. 


But ah! what once has been shall 
be no more! 
The groaning earth in travail 
and in pain 
Brings forth its races, but does 
not restore, 
And the dead nations never rise 
again. 


OLIVER BASSELIN 


In the Valley of the Vire 
Still is seen an ancient mill, 
With its gables quaint and queer, 
» And beneath the window-sill, 


245 


On the stone, 
These words alone: 
‘Oliver Basselin lived here.’ 


Far above it, on the steep, 
Ruined stands the old Chateau, 
Nothing but the donjon-keep 
Left for shelter or for show. 
Its vacant eyes 
Stare at the skies, 
Stare at the valley green and 
deep. 


Once a convent, old and brown, 
Looked, but ah! it looks no 
more, 
From the neighboring hillside 
down 
On the rushing and the roar 
Of the stream 
Whose sunny gleam 
Cheers the little Norman town. 


In that darksome mill of stone, 
To the water’s dash and din, 
Careless, humble, and unknown, 
Sang the poet Basselin 

Songs that fill 
That ancient mill 
With a splendor of its own. 


Never feeling of unrest 
Broke the pleasant dream he 
dreamed ; 
Only made to be his nest, 
All the lovely valley seemed; 
No desire 
Of soaring higher 
Stirred or fluttered in his breast. 


True, his songs were not divine ; 
Were not songs of that high art, 
Which, as winds do in the pine, 
Find an answer in each heart ; 
But the mirth 
Of this green earth 
Laughed and revelled in his line, 


From the alehouse and the inn, 
Opening on the narrow street, 
Came the loud, convivial din, 


246 


Singing and applause of feet, 
The laughing lays 
That in those days 
Sang the poet Basselin. 


In the castle, cased in steel, 
Knights, who fought at Agin- 
court, 
Watched and waited, 
heel; 
But the poet sang for sport 
Songs that rang 
Another clang, 
Songs that lowlier hearts could 
feel. 


spur on 


In the convent, clad in gray, 
Sat the monks in lonely cells, 
Paced the cloisters, knelt to pray, 
And the poet heard their bells ; 
But his rhymes 
Found other chimes, 
Nearer to the earth than they. 


Gone are all the barons bold, 
Gone are all the knights and 
squires, 
Gone the abbot stern and cold, 
And the brotherhood of friars ; 
Not a name 
Remains to fame, 
From those mouldering days of 
old! 


But the poet’s memory here 
Of the landscape makes a part; 
Like the river, swift and clear, 
Flows his song through many a 
heart; 
Haunting still 
That ancient mill 
In the Valley of the Vire. 


VICTOR GALBRAITH 


UNDER the walls of Monterey 
At daybreak the bugles began to 
play, 
Victor Galbraith! 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE 


eee 


In the mist of the morning damp 
and gray, 
These were the words they seemed 
to say: 
‘Come forth to thy death, 
Victor Galbraith!’ 


Forth he came, with a martial 
tread ; 
Firm was his step, erect his head; 
Victor Galbraith, 
He who so well the bugle played, 
Could not mistake the words it 
said: 
‘Come forth to thy death, 
Victor Galbraith !? 


He looked at the earth, he looked 
at the sky, 
He looked at the files of mus- 
ketry, 
Victor Galbraith ! 
And he said, with a steady voice 
and eye, 
‘Take good aim; I am ready ta 
die!? 
Thus challenges death 
Victor Galbraith. 
Twelve fiery tongues flashed 
straight and red, 
Six leaden balls on their errand 
sped; 
Victor Galbraith 
Falls to the ground, but he is not 
dead : 
His name was not stamped on 
those balls of lead, 
And they only scath 
Victor Galbraith. . 


Three balls are in his breast and 
brain, 
But he rises out of the dust again, 
Victor Galbraith! 
The water he drinks has a bloody 
stain; 
‘Oh kill me, and put me out of my 
pain ! 
In his agony prayeth 
Victor Galbraith. 


MY LOST YOUTH 


— 


Forth dart once more those tongues 
of flame, 
And the bugler has died a death of 
shame, 
Victor Galbraith! 
His soul has gone back to whence 
it came, 
And no one answers to the name, 
When the Sergeant saith, 
‘Victor Galbraith !? 


Under the walls of Monterey 
By night a bugle is heard to play, 
Victor Galbraith! 
Through the mist of the valley 
damp and gray 
The sentinels hear the sound, and 
Say, 
‘That is the wraith 
Of Victor Galbraith!’ 


MY LOST YOUTH 


OFTEN I think of the beautiful 
town 
That is seated by the sea; 
Often in thought go up and down 
The pleasant streets of that dear 
old town, 
And my youth comes back to 
me. 
And a verse of a Lapland 
song 
Is haunting my memory still: 
‘A boy’s will is the wind’s 
will, 
And the thoughts of youth are 
long, long thoughts.’ 


I can see the shadowy lines of its 
trees, 
And catch, in sudden gleams, 
The sheen of the far-surrounding 
seas, 
And islands that were the Hes- 
perides 
Of all my boyish dreams. 
And the burden of that old 
song, 
It murmurs and whispers still: 


247 


‘A boy’s will is the wind’s 
will, 
And the thoughts of youth are 
long, long thoughts.’ 


I remember the black wharves 
and the slips, 
And the sea-tides tossing free; 
And Spanish sailors with bearded 
lips, 
And the beauty and mystery of 
the ships, 
And the magic of the sea. 
And the voice of that wayward 
song 
Is singing and saying still: 
‘A boy’s will is the wind’s 
will, 
And the thoughts of youth are 
long, long thoughts.’ 


I remember the bulwarks by the 
shore, 
And the fort upon the hill; 
The sunrise gun, with its hollow 
roar, 
The drum-beat repeated o’er and 
o’er, 
And the bugle wild and shrill. 
And the music of that old 
song 
Throbs in my memory still: 
‘A boy’s will is the wind’s 
will, 
And the thoughts. of youth are 
long, long thoughts.’ 


I remember the sea-fight far away, 
How it thundered o’er the tide! 
And the dead captains, as they 

lay 
In their graves, o’erlooking the 
tranquil bay 
Where they in battle died. 
And the sound of that mourn- 
ful song 
Goes through me with a thrill: 
‘A boy’s will is the wind’s 
will, 
And the thoughts of youth are 
long, long thoughts.’ 


248 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE 





I can see the breezy dome of But the native air is pure and 


groves, 
shadows of 
Woods; 
And the friendships old and the 
early loves 
Come back with a Sabbath sound, 
as of doves 
In quiet neighborhoods. 
And the verse of that sweet 
old song, 
It flutters and murmurs still : 
‘A boy’s will is the wind’s 
will, 
And the thoughts of youth are 
long, long thoughts.’ 


The Deering’s 


Iremember the gleams and glooms 
that dart 
Across the school-boy’s brain; 
The song and the silence in the 
heart, 
That in part are prophecies, and 
in part 
Are longings wild and vain. 
And the voice of that fitful 
song 
Sings on, and is never still: 
‘A boy’s will is the wind’s 
will, 
And the thoughts of youth are 
long, long thoughts.’ 


There are things of which I may 
not speak ; 

There are dreams that cannot 
die ; 
There are thoughts that make the 

strong heart weak, 
And bring a pallor into the cheek, 
And a mist before the eye. 
And the words of that fatal 
song 
Come over me like a chill: 
‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 
And the thoughts of youth are 
long, long thoughts.’ 


Strange to me now are the forms 
I meet 
When I visit the dear old town; 


sweet, 
the trees that o’ershadow 
each well-known street, 

As they balance up and down, 
Are singing the beautiful song, 
Are sighing and whispering 

still: 
‘ A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 
And the thoughts of youth are 
long, long thoughts.’ 


And 


And Deering’s Woods are fresh 
and fair, 
And with joy that is almost pain 
My heart goes back to wander 
there, 
And among the dreams of the days 
that were, 
T find my lost youth again. 
And the strange and beautiful 
song, 
The groves are repeating it 
still: 
‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 
And the thoughts of youth are 
long, long thoughts.’ 


THE ROPEWALK 


In that building, long and low, 
With its windows all a-row, 

Like the port-holes of a hulk, 
Human spiders spin and spin, 
Backward down their threads so 

thin 

Dropping, each a hempen bulk. 


At the end, an open door; 
Squares of sunshine on the floor 
Light the long and dusky lane g 
And the whirring of a wheel, 
Dull and drowsy, makes me feel 
All its spokes are in my brain. 


As the spinners to the end 
Downward go and reascend, 
Gleam the long threads in the 
sun: 
While within this brain of mine 


THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE 


249 





Cobwebs brighter and more fine 
By the busy wheel are spun. 


Two fair maidens in a swing, 
Like white doves upon the wing, 
First before my vision pass ; 

Laughing, as their gentle hands 
Closely clasp the twisted strands, 
At their shadow on the grass. 


Then a booth of mountebanks, 
With its smell of tan and planks, 
And a girl poised high in air 
On a cord, in spangled dress, 

With a faded loveliness, 
And a weary look of care. 


Then a homestead among farms, 

And a woman with bare arms 

. Drawing water from a well; 

As the bucket mounts apace, 

With it mounts her own fair face, 
As at some magician’s spell. 


Then an old man in a tower, 
Ringing loud the noontide hour, 
While the rope coils round and 
round 
Like a serpent at his feet, 
And again, in swift retreat, 
Nearly lifts him from the ground. 


Then within a prison-yard, 
Faces fixed, and stern, and hard, 
Laughter and indecent mirth; 
Ah! it is the gallows-tree ! 
Breath of Christian charity, 
Blow, and sweep it from the 
earth! 


Then a schooLboy, with his kite 
Gleaming in a sky of light, 
And an eager, upward look ; 
Steeds pursued through lane and 
field; 
Fowlers with their snares con- 
cealed ; 
And an angler by a brook. 


Ships rejoicing in the breeze, 
Wrecks that float o’er unknown 
seas, 


Anchors dragged through faith- 
less sand; 
Sea-fog drifting overhead, 
And, with lessening line and lead, 
Sailors feeling for the land. 


All these scenes do I behold, 
These, and many left untold, 
In that building long and low; 
While the wheel goes round ard 
round, 
With a drowsy, dreamy sound, 
And the spinners backward go. 


THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE 


LEAFLESS are the trees; their 
purple branches 
Spread themselves abroad, like 
reefs of coral, 
tising silent 
In the Red Sea of the winter sunset. 


From the hundred chimneys of the 
village, 
Like the Afreet in the Arabian 
story, 
Smoky columns 
Tower aloft into the air of amber. 


At the window winks the flicker. 
ing firelight ; 
Here and there the lamps of even- 
ing glimmer, 
Social watch-fires 
Answering one another through 
the darkness. 


On the hearth the lighted logs are 
glowing, 
And like Ariel in the cloven pine- 
tree 
For its freedom 
Groans and sighs the air impris- 
oned in them, 


By the fireside there are old men 
seated, 
Seeing ruined cities in the ashes, 
Asking sadly 
Of the Past what it can ne’er re 
store them, 


250 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE 





By the fireside there are youthful 
dreamers, 
Building castles fair, with stately 
stairways, 
Asking blindly 
Of the Future what it cannot give 
them. 


By the fireside tragedies are acted 
In whose scenes appear two actors 
only, 
Wife and husband, 
And above them God the sole spec- 
tator. 


By the fireside there are peace and 
comfort, 
Wives and children, with fair, 
thoughtful faces, 
Waiting, watching 
For a well-known footstep in the 
passage. 


Each man’s chimney is his Golden 
Mile-Stone ; 
Is the central point, from which he 
measures 
Every distance 
Through the gateways of the 
world around him. 


In his farthest wanderings still he 
sees it; 
Hears the talking flame, the an- 
swering night-wind, 
As he heard them 
When he sat with those who were, 
but are not. 


Happy he whom neither wealth 
nor fashion, 
Nor the march of the encroaching 
city, 
Drives an exile 
From the hearth of his ancestral 
homestead. 


We may build more splendid habi- 
tations, 
Fill our rooms with paintings and 
with sculptures, 
But we cannot 
Buy with gold the old associations! 


CATAWBA WINE 


THIS song of mine 
Is a Song of the Vine, 
To be sung by the glowing embers 
Of wayside inns, 
When the rain begins 
To darken the drear Novembers, 


It is not a song 
Of the Scuppernong, 
From warm Carolinian valleys, 
Nor the Isabel 
And the Muscadel 
That bask in our garden alleys, 


Nor the red Mustang, 
Whose clusters hang 

O’er the waves of the Colorado, 
And the fiery flood 
Of whose purple blood 

Has a dash of Spanish bravado, 


For richest and best 
Is the wine of the West, 
That grows bythe Beautiful River; 
Whose sweet perfume 
Fills all the room 
With a benison on the giver. 


And as hollow trees 
Are the haunts of bees, 
Forever going and coming ; 
So this crystal hive 
Is all alive 
With a swarming and buzzing and 
humming. 


Very good in its way 
Is the Verzenay, 
Or the Sillery soft and creamy; 
But Catawba wine 
Has a taste more divine, 
More dulcet, delicious, 
dreamy. 


and 


There grows no vine 

By the haunted Rhine, 
By Danube or Guadalquivir, 

Nor on island or cape, 

That bears such a grape 


.AS grows by the Beautiful River. 


SANTA FILOMENA 


Drugged is their juice 
For foreign use, 
When shipped o’er the reeling At- 
lantic, 
To rack our brains 
With the fever pains, 
That have driven the Old World 
frantic. 


To the sewers and sinks 
With all such drinks, 

And after them tumble the mixer; 
For a poison malign 
Is such Borgia wine, 

Or at best but a Devil’s Elixir. 


While pure as a spring 
Is the wine I sing, 
And to praise it, one needs but 
name it; 
For Catawba wine 
Has need of no sign, 
No tavern-bush to proclaim it. 


And this Song of the Vine, 
This greeting of mine, 
The winds and the birds shall de- 
liver 
To the Queen of the West, 
Tn her garlands dressed, 
On the banks of the Beautiful 
River. 


SANTA FILOMENA 


WHENF’ER a noble deed is 
wrought, 

Whene’er is spoken a noble 
thought, 


Our hearts, in glad surprise, 
To higher levels rise. 
The tidal wave of deeper souls 
Into our inmost being rolls, 
And lifts us unawares 
Out of all meaner cares. 


Honor to those whose words or 
deeds 
Thus help us in our daily needs, 


251 





And by their overflow 
Raise us from what is low! 


Thus thought I, as by night I 
read 
Of the great army of the dead, 
The trenches cold and damp, 
The starved and _ frozen 
camp, — 


The wounded from the_battle- 
plain, 
In dreary hospitals of pain, 
The cheerless corridors, 
The cold and stony floors. 


Lo! in that house of misery 
A lady with a lamp I see 
Pass through the glimmering 
gloom, 
And flit from room to room. 
And slow, aS in a dream of 
bliss, 
The speechless sufferer turns to 
kiss 
Her shadow, as it falls 
Upon the darkening walls. 


As if a door in heaven should 
be 
Opened and then closed suddenly, 
The vision came and went, 
The light shone and was spent. 


On England’s annals, through the 
long 
Hereafter of her speech and 
song, 
That light its rays shall cast 
From portals of the past. 


A Lady with a Lamp shall stand 

In the great history of the land, 
A noble type of good, 
Heroic womanhood. 


Nor even shall be wanting here 
The palm, the lily, and the spear, 
The symbols that of yore 

Saint Filomena bore. 


252 





THE DISCOVERER OF THE 
NORTH CAPE 


A LEAF FROM KING ALFRED’S 
OROSIUS 


OTHERE, the old sea-captain, 
Who dwelt in Helgoland, 


To King Alfred, the Lover of 
Truth, 
Brought a snow-white walrus- 
tooth, 
Which he held in his brown 
right hand. 


His figure was tall and stately, 
Like a boy’s his eye appeared ; 

His hair was yellow as hay, 

But threads of a silvery gray 
Gleamed in his tawny beard. 10 


Hearty and hale was Othere, 
His cheek had the color of 
oak ; 
With a kind of a laugh in his 
speech, 
Like the sea-tide on a beach, 
As unto the King he spoke. 


And Alfred, King of the Saxons, 
Had a book upon his knees, 
And wrote down the wondrous 
tale 
Of him who was first to sail 
Into the Arctic seas. 20 


*So far I live to the northward, 
No man lives north of me; 
To the east are wild mountain- 
chains, 


And beyond them meres and. 


plains ; 
To the westward all is sea. 


‘So far I live to the northward, 
From the harbor of Skeringes- 
hale, 
If you only sailed by day, 
With a fair wind all the way, 
More than a month would you 
sail. 30 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE 


‘T own six hundred reindeer, 
With sheep and swine beside; 

I have tribute from the Finns, 

Whalebone and reindeer-skins, 
And ropes of walrus-hide. 


‘T ploughed the land with horses, 
But my heart was ill at ease, 
For the old seafaring men 
Came to me now and then, 
With their sagas of the seas;— 4c 


‘Of Iceland and of Greenland, 
And the stormy Hebrides, 
And the undiscovered deep ; — 
Oh I could not eat nor sleep 

For thinking of those seas. 


‘To the northward stretched the 
desert, 
How far I fain would know ; 
So at last I sallied forth, 
And three days sailed due north, 
As far as the whale-ships go. 50 


‘To the west of me was the ocean, 
To the right the desolate shore, 
But I did not slacken sail 
For the walrus or the whale, 
Till after three days more. 


‘The days grew longer and longer, 
Till they became as one, 
And northward through the haze 
I saw the sullen blaze 
Of the red midnight sun. 60 


‘And then uprose before me, 
Upon the water’s edge, 
The huge and haggard shape 
Of that unknown North Cape, 
Whose form is like a wedge. 
‘The sea was rough and stormy, 
The tempest howled and wailed, 
And the sea-fog, like a ghost, 
Haunted that dreary coast, 
But onward still I sailed. 7G 


‘Four days I steered to eastward, 
Four days without a night: 


— —— 


THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ 


-) 





Round in a fiery ring 
Went the great sun, O King, 
With red and lurid light.’ 


Here Alfred, King of the Saxons, 
Ceased writing for a while; 
And raised his eyes from his 
book, 
With a strange and puzzled look, 
And an incredulous smile. 80 


But Othere, the old sea-captain, 
He neither paused nor stirred, 

Till the Kiug listened, and then 

Once more took up his pen, 
And wrote down every word. 


‘And now the land,’ said Othere, 
‘Bent southward suddenly, 

And I followed the curving shore 

And ever soutaward bore 
Into a nameless sea. go 

* And there we hunted the walrus, 
The narwhale, and the seal; 

Ha! ’twas a noble game! 

And like the lightning’s flame 
Flew our harpoons of steel. 


*There were six of us all together 
Norsemen of Helgoland; 
In two days and no more 
We killed of them threescore, 
And dragged them to 
strand!’ 


the 


100 


Here Alfred the Truth-teller 
Suddenly closed his book, 

And lifted his blue eyes, 

With doubt and strange surmise 
Depicted in their look. 


And Othere the old sea-captain 
Stared at him wild and weird, 
Then smiled, till his shining 

teeth 

Gleamed white from underneath 
His tawny, quivering beard. :10 


And to the King of the Saxons, 
In witness of the truth, 








Raising his noble head, 
He stretched his brown hand, and 
said, 
‘Behold this walrus-tooth !? 


DAYBREAK 


A WIND came up out of the sea, 
And said, ‘O mists, make room 
for me.’ 


It hailed the ships, and cried, ‘ Sail 
on, 
Ye mariners, the night is gone.’ 


And hurried landward far away, 
Crying,’ Awake! it is the day.’ 


It said unto the forest, ‘ Shout! 
Hang all your leafy banners out!’ 


It touched the wood-bird’s folded 
wing, 
And said,’ O bird, awake and sing.’ 


And o’er the farms, ‘ O chanticleer, 
Your clarion blow; the day is 
near.’ 


It whispered to the fields of corn, 
‘Bow down, and hail the coming 
morn.’ 


It shouted through the belfry- 
tower, 
‘Awake, O bell! 
hour.’ 


proclaim the 


It crossed the churchyard with a 
sigh, 
And said, ‘ Not yet! in quiet lie.’ 


THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY 
OF AGASSIZ 


MAY 28, 1857 


IT was fifty years ago 
In the pleasant month of Ma, 
In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, 
A child in its cradle lay. 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE 





And Nature, the old nurse, took 
The child upon her knee, 

Saying: ‘ Here is a story-book 
Thy Father has written for thee.’ 


‘Come, wander with me,’ she said, 
‘Into regions yet untrod ; 

And read what is still unread 
In the manuscripts of God.’ 


And he wandered away and away 
With Nature, the dear old nurse, 

Who sang to him night and day 
The rhymes of the universe. 


And whenever the way seemed 
long, ; 
Or his heart began to fail, 
She would sing a more wonderful 
song, 
Or tell a more marvellous tale. 


So she keeps him still a child, 
And will not let him go, 
Though at times his heart beats 
wild 
For the beautiful Pays de Vaud; 


Though at times he hears in his 
dreams 
The Ranz des Vaches of old, 
And the rush of mountain streams 
From glaciers clear and cold; 


And the mother at home says, 
‘Hark! 
For his voice I listen and 
yearn ; 
It is growing late and dark, 
And my boy does not return!’ 


CHILDREN 


CoME to me, O ye children! 
For I hear you at your play, 
And the questions that perplexed 
me 
Have vanished quite away. 


Ye open the eastern windows, 
That look towards the sun, — 


Where thoughts are singing swal 
lows 
And the brooks of morning run. 


In your hearts are the birds and 
the sunshine, 
In your thoughts the brooklet’s 
flow, 
But in mine is the wind of Autumn 
And the first fall of the snow. 


Ah! what would the world be to us 
If the children were no more ? 
We should dread the desert be- 

hind us 
Worse than the dark before. 


What the leaves are to the forest, | 
With light and air for food, 
Ere their sweet and tender juices 
Have been hardened _ iuto 
wood, — 


That to the world are children; 
Through them it feels the glow 
Of a brighter and sunnier climate 

Than reaches the trunks below. 


Come to me, O ye children! 
And whisper in my ear 
What the birds and the winds are 
singing 
In your sunny atmosphere. 


For what are all our contrivings, 
And the wisdom of our books, 
When compared with your ca- 

resses, 
And the gladness of your looks? 


Ye are better than all the ballads 
That ever were sung or said; 
For ye are living poems, 
And all the rest are dead. 


SANDALPHON 


HAVE you read in the Talmud of 
old, 

In the Legends the Rabbins have 
told 


| 
| 
| 


THE CHILDREN’S HOUR 


255 





Of the limitless realms of the air, 
Have you read it, — the marvellous 


story : 

Of Sandalphon, the Angel of 
Glory, 

Sandalphon, the Angel of 
Prayer? 


How. erect, at the outermost gates 
Of the City Celestial he waits, 
With his feet on the ladder of 


light, 

That, crowded with angels un- 
numbered, 

By Jacob was seen,as he slum- 
bered 


Alone in the desert at night? 


The Angels of Wind and of Fire 
Chant only one hymn, and expire 


With the song’s irresistible 
Stress ; 
Expire in their rapture aud won- 
der, 
As harp-strings are broken asun- 
der 


By music they throb to express. 
But serene in the 
throng, 
Unmoved by the rush of the song, 
With eyes unimpassioned and 


rapturous 


slow, 
Among the dead angels, the death- 
less 
Sandalphon — stands listening 
breathless 
To sounds that ascend from be- 
low ;— 


From the spirits on earth that 
adore, 
From the souls that entreat and 
implore 
In the fervor and passion of 
prayer; 
From the hearts that are broken 
with losses, 
And weary with dragging the 
crosses 
Too heavy for mortals to bear. 


And he gathers the prayers as he 
stands, 
And they change into flowers in 
his hands, 
Into garlands of purple and red; 
And beneath the great arch of tlie 
portal, 
Through the streets of the City 
Immortal 
Is wafted the fragrance they 
shed. 


It is but a legend, I know, — 
A fable. a phantom, a show, 

Of the ancient Rabbinical lore ; 
Yet the old medizeval tradition, 
The beautiful, strange superstition, 

But haunts me and holds me the 

more. 


When I look from my window at 
night, 
And the welkin above is all white, 
All throbbing and panting with 
stars, 
Among them majestic is standing 
Sandalphon the angel, expanding 
His pinions in nebulous bars. 


And the legend, I feel, is a part 
Of the hunger and thirst of the 
heart, 
The frenzy and fire of the brain, 
That grasps at the fruitage for- 
bidden, 
The golden pomegranates of Eden, 
To quiet its fever and pain. 


FLIGHT THE SECOND 
THE CHILDREN’S HOUR 


BETWEEN the dark and the day- 
light, 
When the night is beginning to 
lower, 
Comes a pause in the day’s occupa- 
tions, * 
That is known as the Children’s 
Hour. 


250 





I hear in the chamber above me - 
The patter of little feet, 

The sound ofa door that is opened, 
And voices soft and sweet. 


From my study I see in the lamp- 
light, 
f# _ Descending the broad hall stair, 


y““| Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 


And Edith with golden hair. 


_A whisper, and then a silence »- 
.)¥Yet I know by their merry 
eyes 
They are plotting and planning to- 

gether 
To take me by surprise. 


A sudden rush from the stair- 
“way, 
A sudden raid from the hall! 
By three doors left unguarded 
They enter my castle wall! 


They climb up into my turret 
’ O’er the arms and back of my 
chair ; 
If I try to escape, they surround 
me; 
They seem to be everywhere. 


They almost devour me with 
kisses, 
Their arms about me entwine, 
Till I think of the Bishop of Bing- 
en 
In his Mouse- Tower on the 
Rhine! 


Do you think, O blue-eyed ban- 
ditti, ary 
Because you have scaled the 
wall, 
Such an old mustache as Iam 
Is not a match for you all! 


T have you fast in my fortress, 
And will noflet you depart, 
But put you down into the dun- 
geon ie 
In the round-tower of my heart. 


BIRDS OF 










PASSAGE | 


And there willl keep you forever, © 
Yes, forever and a day, 
Till the walls shall crumble to 
ruin, ‘i 
And moulder in dust away ! 


ENCELADUS 


UNDER Mount Etna he lies, 

It is slumber, it is not death; 
For he struggles at times to arise, 
And above him the lurid skies. 

Are hot with his fiery breath. 


The crags are piled on his breast, 
The earth is heaped on his head; 
But the groans of his wild unrest, 
Though smothered and half sup- 
pressed, 
Are heard, and he is not deaa. 


And the nations far away 
Are watching with eager eyes ; 
They talk together and say, 
‘To-morrow, perhaps to-day, 
Enceladus will arise!’ 


And the old gods, the austere 
Oppressors in their strength, 
Stand aghast and white with fear 
At the ominous sounds they hear, 
And tremble, and mutter, ‘ At 
length !? 


Ah me! for the land that is sown 
With the harvest of despair ! 

Where the burning cinders, blown 

From the lips of the overthrown 
Enceladus, fill the air; 


Where ashes are heaped in drifts 
Over vineyard and field and town, 
Whenever he starts and lifts 
His head through the blackened 
rifts 
Of the crags that keep him 
down. 


See, see! the red light shines! 
’T is the glare of his awful eyes! 


SNOW-FLAKES 257 





And the storm-wind shouts through 
the pines 
Of Alps and of Apennines, 
‘Enceladus, arise!’ 


THE CUMBERLAND 


AT anchor in Hampton Roads we 
lay, 
On board of the Cumberland, 
sloop-of-war ; 
And at times from the fortress 
across the bay 
The alarum of drums swept 
past, 
Or a bugle blast 
From the camp on the shore. 


Then far away to the south up- 
rose , 
A little feather of snow-white 
smoke, 
And we knew that the iron ship of 
our foes 
Was steadily steering its course 
To try the force 
~ Of our ribs of oak. 


Down upon us heavily runs, 
Silent and sullen, the floating 
POG Wes 
Then comes a puff of smoke from 
her guns, 
And leaps the terrible death, 
With fiery breath, 
From each open port. 


We are not idle, but send her 


straight 
Defiance back in a full broad- 
side! 
As hail rebounds from a roof of 
slate, 


Rebounds our heavier hail 
From each iron scale 
Of the monster’s hide. 


‘Strike your flag!’ the rebel cries, 
In his arrogant old plantation 
strain. 


‘Never!’ our gallant Morris re- 
plies ; 
‘It is better to sink than to 
yield !? 
And the whole air pealed 
With the cheers of our men. 


Then, likeakraken hugeand black, 
She crushed our ribs in her iron 


grasp! 
Down went the Cumberland all a 

wrack, 
With a sudden shudder of 

death, 


And the ecannon’s breath 
For her dying gasp. 


Next morn, as the sun rose over 
the bay, 
Still floated our flag at the main- 
mast head. 
Lord, how beautiful was Thy day! 
Every waft of the air 
Was a whisper of prayer, 
Or a dirge for the dead. 


Ho! brave hearts that went down 
in the seas! 
Ye are at peace in the troubled 
stream; 
Ho! brave land! with hearts like 
these, 
Thy flag, that is rent in twain, 
Shall be one again, 
And without a seam! 


SNOW-FLAKES 


OuT of the bosom of the Air, 
Out of the cloud-folds of her gar- 
ments shaken, 
Over the woodlands brown and 
bare, 
Over the harvest-fields forsaken, 
Silent, and soft, and slow 
Descends the snow. 


Even as our cloudy fancies take 
Suddenly shape in some divine 
expression, 


258 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE 





Even as the troubled heart doth 
make 
In the white countenance con- 
fession, 
The troubled sky reveals 
The grief it feels. 


This is the poem of the air, 
Slowly in silent syllables re- 
corded ; 
This is the secret of despair, 
Long in its cloudy bosom hoard- 
ed, 
Now whispered and revealed 
To wood and field. 


A DAY OF SUNSHINE 


O GIFT of God! O perfect day: 

Whereon shall no man work, but 
play ; 

Whereon it is enough for me, 

Not to be doing, but to be! 


Through every fibre of my brain, 

Through every nerve, through 
every vein, 

I feel the electric thrill, the touch 

Of life, that seems almosttoo much. 


I hear the wind among the trees 

Playing celestial symphonies; 

I see the branches downward 
bent, 

Like Keys of some great instru- 
ment, 


And over me unrolls on high 

The splendid scenery of the sky, 

Where through a sapphire sea the 
sun 

Sails like a golden galleon, 


Towards yonder cloud-land in the 
West, 

Towards yonder Islands of the 
Blest, 

Whose steep sierra far uplifts 

lis craggy summits white with 
drifts. 


Blow, winds! and waft through al! 
the rooms 

The snow - flakes of the cherry- 
blooms! 

Blow, winds! and bend within my 
reach 

The fiery blossoms of the peach! 


O Life and Love! Ohappy throng 

Of thoughts, whose only speech is 
song! 

O heart of man! canst thou not be 

Blithe as the air is, and as free? 


SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE 


LABOR with what zeal we will, 
Something still remains undone, 

Something uncompleted still 
Waits the rising of the sun. 


By the bedside, on the stair, 
At the threshold, near the gates, 
With its menace or its prayer, 
Like a mendicant it waits; 


Waits, and will not go away; 
Waits, and will not be gainsaid; 
By the cares of yesterday 
Kach to-day is heavier made ; 


Till at length the burden seems 
Greater than our strength can 
bear, 
Heavy as the weight of dreams, 
Pressing on us every where. 


And we stand from day to day, 
Like the dwarfs of times gone 
by, 
Who, as Northern legends say, 
On their shoulders held the sky. 


WEARINESS 


O LITTLE feet! that such long 
years 

Must wander on through hopes 
and fears, 


oa 


Sh ee 


PRELUDE 


259 





Must ache and bleed beneath 
your load ; 
I, nearer to the wayside inn 
Where toil shall cease and rest be- 
gin, 
Am weary, thinking of your 
road! 


O little hands! that, weak or 
strong, 
Have still to serve or rule so 
long, 
Have still so long to give. or 
ask ; 
T, who so much with book and 
pen 
Have toiled among my fellow-men, 
Am weary, thinking of your 
task, 


PAIS S: ATA: 


BAIL 
PRELUDE 
THE WAYSIDE INN 


ONE Autumn night, in Sudbury 
town, 

Across the meadows bare and 

| brown, 

The windows of the wayside inn 

Gleamed red with fire - light 
through the leaves 

Of woodbine, hanging from the 
eaves 

Their crimson curtains rent and 
thin, 





As ancient is this hostelry 

As any in the land may be, 

{Built in the old Colonial day, 
‘When men lived in a grander 
| way, 10 
: ‘With ampler hospitality ; 

\A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, 
‘Now somewhat fallen to decay, 


O little hearts ! that throb and beat 
With such impatient, feverish 
heat, 
Such limitless and strong de- 
sires; 
Mine, that so long has glowed and 
burned, 
With passions into ashes turned, 
Nowcovers and conceals its fires. 


O little souls! as pure and white 
And crystalline as rays of light 
Direct from heaven, their source 
divine; 
Refracted through the mist of 
years, 
How red my setting sun appears, 
How lurid looks this soul of 
mine! 


WAYSIDE INN 


FIRS 


With weather-stains upon the 
wall, 

And stairways worn, and crazy 
doors, 

And creaking and uneven floors, 

And chimneys huge, and tiled and 
tall. 


A region of repose it seems, 

A place of slumber and of dreams, 

Remote among the wooded hills! 

For there no noisy railway speeds, 

Its torch-race scattering smoke 
and gleeds; 22 

But noon and night, the panting 
teams 

Stop under the great oaks, that 
throw 

Tangles of light and shade be- 
low, 

On roofs and doors and window- 
sills. 

Across the road the barns dis 
play 


260 


pee st 


Their lines of stalls, their mows of 
hay, 

Through the wide 
breezes blow, 

The wattled cocks strut to and 





doors the 


fro, 30 

And, half effaced by rain and 
shine, 

The Red Horse prances on the 
sign. 

Round this old-fashioned, quaint 
abode 

Deep silence reigned, save when 
a gust : 

Went rushing down the county 
road, 


And skeletons of leaves, and dust, 

A moment quickened by its breath, 

Shuddered and danced their dance 
.of death, 

And through the ancient oaks o’er- 


head 
Mysterious voices moaned and 
fled. 40 


But from the parlor of the inn 

A pleasant murmur smote the ear, 
Like water rushing through a weir: 
Oft interrupted by the din 

Of laughter and of loud applause, 
And, in each intervening pause, 
The music of a violin. 

The fire-light, shedding over all 
The splendor of its ruddy glow, 
Filled the whole parlor large and 


low; 50 

It gleamed on wainscot and on 
wall, 

It touched with more than wonted 
grace 

Fair Princess Mary’s pictured 
Facer 


It bronzed the rafters overhead, 

On the old spinet’s ivory keys 

It played inaudible melodies, 

It crowned the sombre clock with 
flame, 

The hands, the hours, the maker’s 
name, 

And painted with a livelier red 59 

The Landlord’s coat-vi-arms again; 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


— 


And, flashing on the window-pane, 

Emblazoned with its light and 
shade 

The jovial rhymes, that still re. 
main, 

Writ near a century ago, 

By the great Major Molineaux, 

Whom Hawthorne has immortal 
made. 


Before the blazing fire of wood 

Erect the rapt musician stood ; 

And ever and anon he bent 

His head upon his instrument, 70 

And seemed to listen, till he 
caught 

Confessions of its secretthought,— 

The joy, the triumph, the lament, 

The exultation and the pain ; 

Then, by the magic of his art, 

He soothed the throbbings of its 
heart, 

And lulled it into peace again. 


Around the fireside at their ease 
There sat a group of friends, en- 
tranced 
With the delicious melodies; 80 

Who from the far-off noisy town 
Had to the wayside inn come down, 


' To rest beneath its old oak trees. 


The fire-light on their faces 
glanced, 

Their shadows on the wainscot 
danced, 

And, though of different lands and 


speech, 


Each had his tale to tell, and each | 


Was anxious to be pleased and 


please. 
And while the sweet musician 
plays, 89 
Let me in outline sketch them 
all, 


Perchance uncouthly as the blaze 

With its uncertain touch portrays 

Their shadowy semblance on the 
wall. 


But first the Landlord will I trace, 


Grave in his aspect and attire; 


PRELUDE 


261 





A man of ancient pedigree, 
A Justice of the Peace was he, 
Known in all Sudbury as ‘ The 


Squire.’ 
Proud was he of his name and 
race, 99 


Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh, 

And in the parlor, full in view, 

His coat-of-arms, well framed and 
glazed, 

Upon the wall in colors blazed ; 

He beareth gules upon his shield, 

A chevron argent in the field, 

With three wolf’s-heads, and for 
the crest 

A Wyvern part-per-pale addressed 

Upon a helmet barred; below 

The scroll reads, ‘ By the name of 
Howe.’ 109 

And over this, no longer bright, 

Though glimmering with a latent 
light, 

Was hung the sword his grandsire 
bore 

Ta the rebellious days of yore, 

Down there at Concord in the fight. 


A youth was there, of quiet ways, 

A Student of old books and days, 

To whom all tongues and lands 
were known, 

And yet a lover of his own; 

With many a social virtue graced, 

And yet a friend of solitude; 120 

A man of such a genial mood 

The heart of all things he em- 
braced, 

And yet of such fastidious taste, 

He never found the best too good. 

Books were his passion and de- 
light, 

And in his upper room at home 

Stood many a rare and sumptuous 
tome, 

In vellum bound, with gold be- 
dight, 

Great volumes garmented in white, 

Recalling Florence, Pisa, Rome. 

He loved the twilight that sur- 
rounds 131 

the border-land of old romance ; 


Where glitter hauberk, helm, and 
lance, 

And banner waves, and trumpet 
sounds, 

And ladies ride with hawk on 
wrist, 

And mighty warriors sweep along, 

Magnified by the purple mist, 

The duck of centuries and of song. 

The chronicles of Charlemagne, 

Of Merlin andthe Mort d’Arthure, 

Mingled together in his brain 141 

With tales of Flores and Blanche: 
fleur, 

Sir Ferumbras, Sir Eglamour, 

Sir Launcelot, Sir Morgadour, 

Sir Guy, Sir Bevis, Sir Gawain. 


A young Sicilian, too, was there ; 

In sight of Etna born and bred, 

Some breath of its volcanic air 

Was glowing in his heart and 
brain, 149 

And, being rebellious to his liege, 

After Palermo’s fatal siege, 

Across the western seas he fled, 

In good King Bomba’s happy 
reign. 

His face was like a summer night, 

All flooded with a dusky light; 

His hands were small; his teetu 
shone white 

As sea-shells, when he smiled or 
spoke; 

His sinews supple and strong as 
oak ; 

Clean shaven was he as a priest, 

Who at the mass on Sunday sings, 

Save that upon his upper lip 161 

His beard, a good palm’s length at 
least, 

Level and pointed at the tip, 

Shot sideways, like a swallow’s 
wings. 

The poets read he o’er and o’er, 

And most of all the Immortal] Four 

Of Italy ; and next to those, 

The story-telling bard of prose, 

Who wrote the joyous Tuscan 
tales 


Of the Decameron, that make 170 


262 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





Fiesole’s green hills and vales 
Remembered for Boceaccio’s sake. 


Much too of music was his 
thought ; 

The melodies and measures 
fraught 


With sunshine and the open air, 
Of vineyards and the singing sea 
Of his beloved Sicily ; 
And much it pleased him to peruse 
The songs of the Sicilian muse, — 
Bucolie songs by Meli sung 180 
In the familiar peasant tongue, 
That made men say, ‘Behold! 
once more 
The pitying gods to earth restore 
Theocritus of Syracuse !? 


A Spanish Jew from Alicant 

With aspect grand and grave was 
there; 

Vender of silks and fabrics rare, 

And attar of rose from the Le- 
vant. 

Like an old Patriarch he appeared, 

Abraham or Isaac, or at least 190 

Some later Prophet or High - 
Priest; 

With lustrous eyes, and olive skin, 

And, wildly tossed from cheeks 
and chin, 

The tumbling cataract of his beard. 

His garments breathed a spicy 
scent 

Of cinnamon and sandal blent, 

Like the soft aromatic gales 

That meet the mariner, who sails 

Through the Moluccas, and the 
seas 199 

That wash the shores of Celebes. 

All stories that recorded are 

By Pierre Alphonse he knew by 
heart, 

And it was rumored he could say 

The Parables of Sandabar, 

And all the Fables of Vilpay, 

Or if not all, the greater part! 

Well versed was he in Hebrew 
books, 

Talmud and Targum, and the lore 

Of Kabala; and evermore 209 


There was a mystery in his looks; 

His eyes seemed gazing far away, 

As if in vision or in trance 

He heard the solemn sackbut play, 

And saw the Jewish maidens 
dance. 


A Theologian, from the school 

Of Cambridge on the Charles, was 
there ; 

Skilful alike with tongue and pen, 

He preached to allmen everywhere 

The Gospel of the Golden Rule, 

The New Commandment given to 


men, 220 
Thinking the deed, and not the 
creed, 


Would help us in our utmost need. 

With reverent feet the earth he 
trod, 

Nor banished nature from his plan, 

But studied still with deep re 
search 

To build the Universal Church, 

Lofty as is the love of God, 

And ample as the wants of man. 


A Poet, too, was there, whosé 
verse 22¢ 

Was tender, musical, and terse; 

The inspiration, the delight, 

The gleam, the glory, the swift 
flight 

Of thoughts so sudden, that they 
seem 

The revelations of a dream, 

All these were his; but with them 
came 

No envy of another’s fame ; 

He did not find his sleep les¢ 
sweet : 

For music in some neighboring 
Street, 

Nor rustling hear in every breeze 

The laurels of Miltiades. 240 

Honor and blessings on his head 

While living, good report when 
dead, 

Who, not too eager for renown, 

Accepts, but does not clutch, the 
crown! 


PRELUDE 





Last the Musician, as he stood 

Illumined by that fire of wood ; 

Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect 
blithe, 

His figure tall and straight and 
lithe, 

And every feature of his face 

Revealing his Norwegian race ; 250 

A radiance, streaming from within, 

Around his eyes and forehead 
beamed, 

The Angel with the violin, 

Painted by Raphael, he seemed. 

He lived in that ideal world 

Whose language is not speech, buf 
song; : 

Around him evermore the throng 

Of elves and sprites their dances 
whirled ; 

The Stromkarl sang, the cataract 
hurled 

Its headlong waters from the 
height ; 260 

And mingled in the wild delight 

The scream of sea-birds in their 
flight, 

The rumor of the forest trees, 

The plunge of the implacable 
seas, 

The tumult of the wind at night, 

Voices of eld, like trumpets blow- 
ing, 

Old ballads, and wild melodies 

Through mist and darkness pour- 
ing forth, 

Like Elivagar’s river flowing 
Outof the glaciers of the North. 270 


_ The instrument on which he played 
Was in Cremona’s workshops 
| made, 
By a great master of the past, 
Ere yet was lost the art divine; 
| Fashioned of maple and of pine, 
| That in Tyrolean forests vast 
}lad rocked and wrestled with the 
blast: 
| Exquisite was it in design, 
| Perfect in each minutest part, 
| A marvel of the lutist’s art; 280 
And in its hollow chamber, thus, 





263 


— 


The maker from whose hands it 
came 

Had written 
name, — 

* Antonius Stradivarius.’ 





his unrivalled 


And when he played, the atmo. 


sphere 

Was filled with magic, and the 
ear 

Caught echoes of that Harp of 
Gold, 


Whose music had so weird a sound, 
The hunted stag forgot to bound, 


The leaping rivulet backward 
rolled, 290 

The birds came down from bush 
and tree, 

The dead came from beneath the 
sea, 


The maiden to the harper’s knee! 


The music ceased; the applause 
was loud, 

The pleased musician smiled and 
bowed; 

The wood-fire ciapped its hands of 
flame, 

The shadows on the wainscot 
stirred, 

And from the harpsichord there 
came ’ 

A ghostly murmur of acclaim, 

A sound like that sent down at 
night 300 

By birds of passage in their flight, 

From the remotest distance heard. 


Then silence followed; then be- 
gan 

A clamor 
tale, — 

The story promised them of old, 

They said, but always left un- 
told ; 

And he, although a bashful man, 

And all his courage seemed te 
faite 

Finding excuse of no avail, 

Yielded; and thus the story 
ran. 310 


for the Landlord’s 


264 


THE LANDLORD'S TALE 
PAUL REVERE’S RIDE 


LISTEN, my children, and you 
shall hear 

Of the midnight ride of Paul Re- 
vere, 

On the eighteenth of April, in 
Seventy-five ; 

Hardly a man is now alive 

Who remembers that famous day 
and year. 


He said to his friend, ‘If the Brit- 
ish march 

By land or sea from the town to- 
night, 

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry 
arch 

Of the North Church tower as a 
signal light, — 

One, if by land, and two, if by 


S€a ; 10 

And I on the opposite shore will 
be, 

Ready to ride and spread the 
alarm 

Through every Middlesex village 
and farm, 

For the country folk to be up and 
to arm.’ 


Then he said, ‘Good night!’ and 
with muffled oar 

Silently rowed to the Charles. 
town shore, 

Just as the moon rose over the 


bay, 

‘Where swinging wide at her moor- 
ings lay 

The Somerset, British man-of- 
war; 

A phantom ship, with each mast 
and spar 20 

Across the moon like a prison 
bar, 

And a huge black hulk, that was 
magnified 

By its own reflection in the 
tide, 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


Meanwhile, his friend, through 
alley and street, 

Wanders and watches with eager 
ears, 

Till in the silence around him he 
hears 

The muster of men at the barrack 
door, 

The sound of arms, and the tramp 
of feet, 

And the measured tread of the 
grenadiers, 

Marching down to their boats on 
the shore. 30 


Then he climbed the tower of the 
Old North Church, 

By the wooden stairs, with stealthy 
tread, 

To the belfry-chamber overhead, 

And startled the pigeous from 
their perch 

On the sombre rafters, that ronrd 
him made 

Masses and moving shapes of 
shade, — 

By the trembling ladder, steep and 
tall, 

To the highest window in the 
wall, 

Where he paused to listen and 
look down 

A moment on the roofs of the 


town, 40 
And the moonlight flowing over 
all. 


Beneath, in the churchyard, lay _— 
the dead, 

In their night-encampment on the 
hill, 

Wrapped in silence so deep and 
still 

That he could hear, like a senti- 
nel’s tread, 

The watehful night-wind, as it 
went 

Creeping along from tent to tent, 

And seeming to whisper, ‘ All is 
well!’ 

A moment only he feels the spell 


THE LANDLORD’S TALE 


—— 


Of the place and the hour, and na 
secret dread 

Of the lonely belfry and the dealt 

For suddenly all his thoughts are 
bent 

On ashadowy something far away, 

Where the river widens to meet 
the bay, — 

A line of black that bends and 
floats 

On the rising tide, like a bridge of 
boats. 


Meanwhile, impatient to mount 
and ride, 

Booted and spurred, with a heavy 
stride 

On the opposite shore walked 
Paul Revere. 

Now he patted his horse’s side, 60 

Now gazed at the landscape far 

and near, 

impetuous, 

earth, 

And turned and tightened his sad- 
dle-girth ; 

But mostly he watched with eager 
search 

The belfry-tower of the Old North 
Church, 

As it rose above the graves on the 
hill, 

Lonely and spectral and sombre 
and still. 

And lo! as he looks, on the. bel- 
fry’s height 

A glimmer, and then a gleam of 
light! 

He springs to the saddle, the bri- 
dle he turns, 70 

But lingers and gazes, till full on 
his sight 

A second lamp 
burns! 


Then, stamped the 


in the belfry 


A hurry of hoofs in a village 
street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk 
in the dark, 

and beneath, from the pebbles, in 
passing, a spark 





265 


Struck out by a steed flying fear. 
less and fleet: 

That was all! And yet, through 
the gloom and the light, 

The fate of a nation was riding 
that night; 

And the spark struck out by that 
steed, in his flight, 

Kindled the land into flame with 
its heat. 80 


He has left the village and mounted 
the steep, 

And beneath him, tranquil ane 
broad and deep, 

Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean 
tides ; 

And under the alders that skirt its 
edge, 

Now soft on the sand, now loud on 
the ledge, 

Is heard the tramp of his steed a8 
he rides. 


It was twelve by the village clock, 

When he crossed the bridge into 
Medford town. 

He heard the crowing of the cock, 

And the barking of the farmer’s 
dog, go 

And felt the damp of the river 
fog, 

That rises after the sun goes down, 


It was one by the village clock, 

When he galloped into Lexington. 

He saw the gilded weathercock 

Swim in the moonlight as he 
passed, 

And the meeting-house windows, 
blank and bare, 

Gaze at him with a spectral 
glare, 

As if they already stood aghast 

At the bloody work they would 
look upon. 100 


It was two by the village clock, 

When he came to the bridge in 
Concord town. 

He heard the bleating of the flock, 


266 


And the twitter of birds among 
the trees, 

And felt the breath of the morning 
breeze 

Blowing over the meadows brown. 

And one was safe and asleep in 
his bed 

Who at the bridge would be first 
to fall, 

Whothat day would be lying dead, 

Pierced by a British musket-ball. 


You know the rest. In the books 
you have read, Vi 

How the British Regulars fired 
and fied, — 

How the farmers gave them ball 
for bal, 

From behind each fence and farm- 
yard wall, 

Chasing the red-coats, down the 
Jane, 

Then crossing the fields to emerge 
again 

Under the trees at the turn of the 
road, 

And only pausing to fire and load. 


So through the night rode Paul 
Revere ; 

And so through the night went his 
ery of alarm 120 

To every Middlesex village and 
farm, — 

A ery of defiance and not of fear, 

A voice in the darkness, a knock 
at the door, 

And aword that shall echo for- 


evermore ! 

For, borne on the night-wind of 
the Past, 

Through ali our history, to the 
last, 


In the hour of darkness and peril 
and need, 

The people will waken and listen 
to hear 

The hurrying hoof-beats of that 
steed, 

And the midnight message of Paul 
Revere. 130 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





INTERLUDE 


THE Landlord ended thus his 
tale, 

Then rising took down from its 
nail 

The sword that hung there, dim 
with dust, 

And cleaving to its sheath with 
rust, 

And said,‘ This sword was in the 
fight.’ 

The Poet seized it, and exclaimed, 

* It is the sword of a good knight, 

Though homespun was his coat-of- 
mail; 

What matter if it be not named 

Joyeuse, Colada, Durindale, 

Excalibar, or Aroundight, 

Or other name the books record ? 

Your ancestor, who bore this 
sword 

As Colonel of the Volunteers, 

Mounted upon his old gray mare, 

Seen here and there and every- 
where, 

To me a grander shape appears 

Than old Sir William, or what not, 

Clinking about in foreign lands 

With iron gauntlets on his hands, 

And on his head an iron pot!? 


All laughed; the Landlord’s face 
grew red 

As his escutcheon on the wall; 

He could not comprehend at all 

The drift of what the Poet said; 

For those who had been longest 
dead 

Were always greatestin his eyes ; 

And he was speechless with sur- 
prise 

To see Sir William’s pluméd head 

Brought to a level with the rest, 

And made the subject of a jest. 

And this perceiving, to appease 

The Landlord’s wrath, the others' 
fears, 

The Student said, with careless 
ease, 

‘ The ladies and the cayaliers, 


THE STUDENT’S TALE 


267 





The arms, the loves, the courte- 
sies, 

The deeds of high emprise, I sing! 

Thus Ariosto says, in words 

That have the stately stride and 
ring 

Of arméd knights and clashing 
swords. 

Now listen to the tale I bring; 

Listen! though not to me belong 

The flowing draperies of his song, 

The words that rouse, the voice 
that charms. 

The Landlord’s tale was one of 
arms, 

Only a tale of love is mine, 

Blending the human and divine, 

A tale of the Decameron, told 

In Palmieri’s garden old, 

By Fiametta, laurel-crowned, 

While her companions lay around, 

And heard the intermingled sound 


Of airs that on their errands 
sped, 

And wild birds gossiping over- 
head, 

And lisp of leaves, and fountain’s 
fall, 


And her own voice more sweet 
than all, 

Telling the tale, which, wanting 
these, 

Perchance may lose its power to 
please.’ 


THE STUDENT’S TALE 
THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO 


ONE summer morning, when the 
sun was hot, 

Weary with labor in his garden- 
plot, 

Ona rude bench beneath his cot- 
tage eaves, 

Ser Federigo sat among the leaves 

Of a huge vine, that, with its arms 
outspread, 

Hung its delicious clusters over- 
head. 


Below him, through the lovely 
valley, flowed 

The river Arno, like a winding 
road, 

And from its banks were lifted 
high in air 

The spires and roofs of Florence 


called the Fair; 10 
To him a marble tomb, that rose 
above 


His wasted fortunes and _ his 
buried love. 

For there, in banquet and in tour 
nament, 

His wealth had lavished been, his 
substance spent, 

To woo and lose, since ill his woo- © 
ing sped, 

Monna Giovanna, who his rival 
wed, 

Yet ever in his fancy reigned su- 
preme, 

The ideal woman of a young man’s 
dream. 


Then he withdrew, in poverty and 
pain, 

To this small farm, the last of his 
domain, 20 

His only comfort and his only 
care 

To prune his vines, and plant the 
fig and pear; 

His only forester and only guest 

His falcon, faithful to him, when 
the rest, 

Whose willing hands had found so 
light of yore 

The brazen knocker of his palace 
door, 

Had now no strength to lift the 
wooden latch, 

That entrance gave beneath a roof 
of thatch. 

Companion of his solitary ways, 

Purveyor of his feasts on holi- 


days, 30 
On him this melancholy man be- 
stowed 


The love with which his nature 
overflowed. 


268 


TALES. OF A WAYSIDE INN 





And so the empty-handed years 
went round, 

Vacant, though voiceful with pro- 
phetice sound, 

And so, that summer morn, he sat 
and mused 

With folded, patient hands, as he 

was used, 

dreamily before his  half- 

closed sight 

Floated the vision of his lost de- 
light. 

Beside him, motionless, the drowsy 
bird 

Dreamed of the chase, and in his 
slumber heard 40 

The sudden, scythe-like sweep of 
wings, that dare 

The headlong plunge through ed- 
dying gulfs of air, 

Then, starting broad awake upon 
his perch, 

Tinkled his bells, like mass-bells 
in a church, 

And looking at his master, seemed 
to say, 

‘Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to- 
day?’ 


And 


Ser Federigo thought not of the 


chase; 

The tender vision of her lovely 
face, 

I will not say he seems to see, he 
sees 

In the leaf-shadows of the trel- 
lises, 50 

Herself, yet not herself; a lovely 
child 


With flowing tresses, and eyes 
wide and wild, 

Coming undaunted up the garden 
walk, 

And looking not at him, but at the 
hawk. 

* Beautiful falcon!’ said he,‘ would 
that I 

Might hold thee on my wrist, or 
see thee fly !’ 

The voice was hers, and made 
strange echoes start 


Through all the haunted chambers 
of his heart, 
AS an eolian harp through gusty 


doors 
Of some old ruin its wild music 
pours. 6a 


‘Whois thy mother, my fair boy ?’ 
he said, 

His hand laid softly on that shin- 
ing head. 

*‘Monna Giovanna. 
me stay 

A little while, and with your fal- 
con play ? 

We live there, just beyond your 
garden wall, 

In the great house behind the pop- 
lars tall.’ 


Will you let 


So he spake on; and Federigo 
heard 

As from afar each softly uttered 
word, 

And drifted onward through the 
golden gleams 

And shadows of the misty sea of 
dreams, . 7o 

As mariners becalmed through 
vapors drift, 

And feel the sea beneath them 
sink and lift. 

And hear far off the mournful 
breakers roar, 

And voices calling faintly from the 
shore ! 

Then waking from his pleasant 
reveries, 

He took the little boy upon his 
knees, 

And told him stories of his gallant 
bird, 

Tillin their friendship he became 
a third. 


Monna Giovanna, widowed in her 
prime, 

Had come with friends to pass the 
summer time 8a 

In her grand villa, half-way up the 
hill, 


THE STUDENT’S TALE 


O’erlooking Florence, but retired 
and still; 
iron gates, that opened 

through long lines 

Of sacrec ilex and centennial pines, 

And terraced gardens, and broad 
steps of stone, 

And sylvan deities, with moss o’er.- 
grown, 

And fountains palpitating in the 
heat, 

And all Val d’Arno stretched be- 
neath its feet. 

Here in seclusion, as a widow may, 

The lovely lady whiled the hours 
away, go 

Pacing in sable robes the statue 
hall, 

Herself the stateliest statue among 
all, 

And seeing more and more, with 
secret joy, 

Her husband risen and living in 
her boy, 

Till the lost sense of life returned 
again, 

Not as delight, but as relief from 
pain. 

Meanwhile the boy, rejoicing in 
his strength, 

Stormed down the terraces from 
length to length ; 

The screaming peacock chased in 
hot pursuit, 

And climbed the garden trellises 
for fruit. — 100 

But his chief pastime was to watch 
the flight 

Of a gerfalcon, soaring into sight, 

Beyond the trees that fringed the 
garden wall, 

Then downward stooping at some 
distant call; 

and as he gazed full often won- 
dered he 

Who might the master of the fal- 
con be, 

Until that happy morning, when 
he found 

Master and falcon in the cottage 
ground, 


With 


26g 


And now a shadow and a terror fell 

On the great house, as if a pass- 
ing-bell ce) 

Tolled from the tower, and filled 
each spacious room 

With secret awe and preternatural 


gloom ; ; 

The petted boy grew ill, and day 
by day 

Pined with mysterious malady 
away. 


The mother’s heart would not be 
comforted ; 

Her darling seemed to her already 
dead, 

And often, sitting by the sufferer’s 
side, 

‘What can I do to comfort thee?’ 
she cried. 

At first the silent lips made no 
reply, 

But, moved at length by her im- 
portunate ery, 120 

‘Give me,’ he answered, with im- 
ploring tone, 

Ser Federigo’s falcon for my own!‘ 


No answer could the astonished 
mother make; 

How could she ask, e’en for her 
darling’s sake, 

Such favor at a luckless lover’s 
hand, 

Well knowing that to ask was to 
command ? 

Well knowing, what all falconers 
confessed, 

In all the land that falcon was the 
best, 

The master’s pride and passion 
and delight, 

And the sole pursuivant of this 
poor knight. 130 

But yet, for her child’s sake, she 
could no less 

Than give assent, to soothe his 
restlessness, 

So promised, and then promising 
to keep 

Her promise sacred, saw him fall 
asleep. 


270 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





The morrow was a bright Septem- 
ber morn ; 

The earth was beautiful as if new- 
born; 

There was that nameless splendor 
everywhere, 

That wild exhilaration in the air, 

Which makes the passers in the 
city street 

Congratulate each other as they 
meet. 140 

Two lovely ladies, clothed in cloak 
and hood, 

Passed through the garden gate 
into the wood, 

Under the lustrous leaves, and 
through the sheen 

Of dewy sunshine showering down 
between. 

The one, close-hooded, had the at- 
tractive grace 

Which sorrow sometimes lends a 
woman’s face; 

Her dark eyes moistened with the 
mists that roll 

From the gulf-stream of passion 
in the soul; 

The other with her hood thrown 
back, her hair 

Making a golden glory in the air, 

Her cheeks suffused with an auro- 
ral blush, 151 

Her young heart singing louder 
than the thrush, 

So walked, that morn, through 
mingled light and shade, 

Each by the other’s presence love- 
lier made, 

Monna Giovanna and her bosom 
friend, 

Intent upon their errand and its 
end. 


They found Ser Federigo at his 
toil, 

Like banished Adam, delving in 
the soil; 

And when he looked and these fair 
women spied, 

The garden suddenly was glori- 
fied ; ‘ 160 


His long-lost Eden was restored 
again, 

And the strange river winding 
through the plain 

No longer was the Arno to his eyes, 

But the Euphrates watering Para. 
dise ! 


Monna Giovanna raised her stately 
head, 

And with fair words of salutation 
said : : 

‘Ser Federigo, we come here as 
friends, 

Hoping in this to make some poor 
amends 

For past unkindness. 
before 

Would even cross the threshold of 
your door, 170 

I who in happier days such pride 
maintained, 

Refused your banquets, and your 
gifts disdained, 

This morning come, a self-invited 
guest, 

To put your generous nature to 
the test, 

And breakfast with you under 
your own vine.’ 

To which he answered: 
desert of mine, 

Not your unkindness call it, for if 
aught 

Is good in me of feeling or of 
thought, 

From you it comes, and this last 
grace outweighs 

All sorrows, all regrets of other 
days.’ 18 


I who ne’er 


‘Poor 


And after further compliment ana 
talk, 

Among the asters in the garden 
walk 

He left his guests; and to his cot- 
tage turned, 

And as he entered for a moment 
yearned 

For the lost splendors of the days 
of old, 


THE STUDENT’S TALE 


271 





The ruby glass, the silver and the 
gold, 

And felt how piercing is the sting 
of pride, 

By want embittered and intensi- 
‘fied. 

He looked about him for some 


means or way 

To keep this unexpected holi- 
day; 190 

Searched every cupboard, and 
then searched again, 

Summoned the maid, who came, 
but came in vain; 

*The Signor did not hunt to-day,’ 
she said, 

*There ’s nothing in the house but 
wine and bread.’ 

Then suddenly the drowsy falcon 
shook 

His little bells, with that sagacious 
look, 

Which said, as plain as language 
to the ear, 

*If anything is wanting, I am 
here!’ 

Yes, everything is wanting, gallant 
bird! 

The master seized thee without 
further word. 200 

Like thine own lure, he whirled 
thee round; ah me! 

The pomp and flutter of brave fal- 
conry, 

The bells, the jesses, the bright 
scarlet hood, 

The flight and the pursuit o’er field 
and wood, 

All these forevermore are ended 
now; 

No longer victor, but the victim 
thou! 


Then on the board a sno y-white 
cloth he spread, 

Laid on its wooden dish the loaf 
of bread, 

Brought purple grapes with au- 
tumn sunshine hot, 

The fragrant peach, the juicy ber- 
gamot; 210 


Then in the midst a flask of wine 
he placed 

And with autumnal flowers the 
banquet graced. 

Ser Federigo, would not these suf- 
fice 

Without thy faleon stuffed with 
cloves and spice ? 


When all was ready, and the 
courtly dame 

With her companion to the cottage 
came, 

Upon Ser Federigo’s brain there 
fell 

The wild enchantment of a magic 
spell! 

The room they entered, mean and 
low and small, 

Was changed into a sumptuous 
banquet-hall, 220 

With fanfares by aerial trumpets 
blown; 

The rustic chair she sat on was a 
throue: 

He ate celestial food, and a divine 

Flavor was given to his country 
wine, 

And the poor falcon, fragrant with 
his spice, 

A peacock was, or bird of vara- 
dise ! 


When the repast was ended, they 


arose 

And passed again into the garden. 
close. 

Then said the lady, ‘ Far too well I 
know, 

R2membering still the days of long 
ago, 230 


Though you betray it not, with 
what surprise 

You see me here in this familiar 

wise. 

You have no children, and you can> 
not guess 

What anguish, what unspeakable 
distress 

A mother feels, whose child is ly 
ing ill, 


272 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





Nor how her heart anticipates his 
will. 

And yet for this, you see me lay 
aside 

All womanly reserve and check of 
pride, 

And ask the thing most precious 
in your sight, 

Your falcon, your sole comfort and 
delight, 240 

Which if you find it in your heart 
to give, 

My poor, unhappy boy perchance 
may live.’ 


Ser Federigo listens, and replies, 

With tears of love and pity in his 
eyes: 

* Alas, dear lady! there can be no 
task 

So sweet to me, as giving when 

you ask. | 

One little hour ago, if I had 
known 

This wish of yours, it would have 
been my own. 

But thinking in what manner I 
could best 

Do honor to the presence of my 


guest, 250 

I deemed that nothing worthier 
could be 

Than what most dear and precious 
was to me; 

And so my gallant falcon breathed 
his last 

To furnish forth this morning our 
repast.’ 


In mute contrition, mingled with 
dismay, 

The gentle lady turned her eyes 
away, 

Grieving that he such sacrifice 
should make 

And kill his faleon for a woman’s 
sake, 

Yet feeling in her heart a woman’s 
pride, 

That nothing she could ask for 
was denied ; 260 


Then took her leave, and passed 
out at the gate 

With footsteps slow and soul dis- 
consolate. 


Three days went by, and lo! a 
passing-bell 

Tolled from the little chapel in the 
dell; 

Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, 
and said, 

Breathing a prayer, ‘ Alas! her 
child is dead !’ 

Three months went by; and lo! a 
merrier chime 

Rang from the chapel bells at 
Christmas-time ; 

The cottage was deserted, and no 
more 

Ser Federigo sat beside its door, 

But now, with servitors to do his 
will, 271 

In the grand villa, half-way up the 
hill, 

Sat at the Christmas feast, and at 
his side 

Monna Giovanna, his beloved bride, 

Never so beautiful, so kind, so 
fair, 

Enthroned once more in the old 
rustie chair, 

High-perched upon the back of 
which there stood . 

The image of a falcon carved in 
wood, 

And underneath the inscription. 
with a date, 

* All things come round to him wh¢ 
will but wait.’ 280 


INTERLUDE 


Soon as the story reached its end, 

One, over eager to commend, 

Crowned it with injudicious praise ; 

And then the voice of blame found 
vent, 

And fanned the embers of dis< 
sent 

Into a somewhat lively blaza 


THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE 


_ 


The Theologian shook his head; 

‘These old Italian tales,’ he said, 

‘From the much-praised Decam- 
eron down 

Through all the rabble of the rest, 

Are either trifling, dull, or lewd; 

The gossip of a neighborhood 

In some remote provincial town, 

A scandalous chronicle at best! 

They seem to me a stagnant fen, 

Grown rank with rushes and with 
reeds, 

Where a white lily, now and then, 

Blooms in the midst of noxious 

weeds 

deadly nightshade on 

banks !? 


And its 


To this the Student straight re- 
plied, 

‘For the white lily, many thanks! 

One should not say, with too much 
pride, ~ 

Fountain, I will not drink of thee! 

Nor were it grateful to forget 

That from these reservoirs and 
tanks 

f£ven imperial Shakespeare drew 

His Moor of Venice, and the Jew, 

And Romeo and Juliet, 

And many a famous comedy.’ 


Then a long pause; till some one 
Said, 

‘An Angel is flying overhead!’ 

At these words spake the Spanish 


Jew, 

And murmured with an inward 
breath: 

*God grant, if what you say be 
true, 


It may not be the Angel of Death !? 

And then another pause; and 
then, 

Stroking his beard, he said again: 

‘This brings back to my memory 

A story in the Talmud told, 

That book of gems, that book of 
gold, 

Of wonders many and manifold, 

A tale that often comes to me, 





273 


And fills my heart, and haunts my 
brain, 
And never wearies nor grows old.’ 


THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE 


THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN 
LEVI 


RABBI BEN LEVI, on the Sabbath, 
read 

A volume of the Law, in which it 
said, 

‘No man shall look upon my face 
and live.’ 

And as he read, he prayed that 
God would give 

His faithful servant grace with 
mortal eye 

To look upon His face and yet not 
die. 


Then fell a sudden shadow on the 
page, 

And, lifting up his eyes, grown dim 
with age, 

He saw the Angel of Death before 
him stand, 

Holding a naked sword in his right 


hand. 10 
Rabbi Ben Levi was a righteous 
man, 


Yet through his veins a chill of 
terror ran. 

With trembling voice he said, 
‘What wilt thou here?’ 

The Angel answered, ‘Lo! the 
time draws near 

When thou must die; yet first, by 
God's decree, 

Whate’er thou askest shall be 
granted thee.’ 

Replied the Rabbi, * Let these liv- 
ing eyes 

First look upon my place in Para- 
dise.’ 


Then said the Angel, ‘Come with 
me and look.’ 

Rabbi Ben Levi closed the sacred 
book, 2a 


274 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





And rising, and uplifting his gray 
head, 

‘Give me thy sword,’ he to the 
Angel said, 

‘Lest thou shouldst fall upon me 
by the way.’ 

The Angel smiled and hastened to 
obey, 

Then led him forth to the Celestial 
Town, 

And set him on the wall, whence, 
gazing down, 

Rabbi Ben Levi, with his living 
eyes, 

Might look upon his place in Para- 
dise. 


Then straight into the city of the 


Lord 
The Rabbi leaped with the Death- 
Angel’s sword, 30 


And through the streets there 
swept a sudden breath 

Of something there unknown, 
which men call death. 

Meanwhile the Angel stayed with- 
out, and cried, 

‘Come back!’ To which the 
Rabbi’s voice replied, 

‘No! in the name of God, whom I 


adore, 
I swear that hence I will depart 
no more!’ 


Then allthe Angels cried, ‘O Holy 
One, 

See what the son of Levi here 
hath done! 

The kingdom of Heaven he takes 
by violence, 

And in Thy name refuses to go 
hence!’ 40 

The Lord replied, ‘My Angels, be 
not wroth; 

Did e’er the son of Levi break his 
oath ? 

Let him remain; for he with mor- 
tal eye 

Shall look upon my face and yet 
not die.’ 


Beyond the outer wall the Angel 
of Death 

Heard the great voice, and said, 
with panting breath, 

‘Give back the sword, and let me 
go my way.’ 

Whereat the Rabbi paused, and 
answered, ‘ Nay! 

Anguish enough already hath it 
caused 

Among the sons of men.’ And 
while he paused 50 

He heard the awful mandate of the 
Lord 

Resounding through the air, ‘ Give 
back the sword!’ 


The Rabbi bowed his head in st- 
lent prayer, 

Then said he to the dreadful Ange?, 
‘Swear 

No human eye shall look on it 
again; 

But when thou takest away the 
souls of men, 

Thyself unseen, and with an un- 
seen sword, 

Thou wilt perform the bidding of 
the Lord.’ 

The Angel took the sword again, 
and swore, 

And walks on earth unseen for- 
evermore. 60 


INTERLUDE 


HE ended: and a kind of spell 

Upon the silent listeners fell. 

His solemn manner and his words 

Had touched the deep, mysterious 
chords 

That vibrate in each human breast 

Alike, but not alike confessed. 

The spiritual world seemed near; 

And close above them, full of fear, 

Its awful adumbration passed, 

A luminous shadow, vague and 
vast. 

They almost feared to look, les‘ 
there, 


THE SICILIAN’S TALE 


275 





Embodied from the impalpable air, 

They might behold the Angel 
stand, 

Holding the sword in his right 
hand. 


At last, but in a voice subdued, 

Not to disturb their dreamy mood, 

Said the Sicilian: ‘While you 
spoke, 

Telling your legend marvellous, 

Suddenly in my memory woke 

The thought of one, now gone 
from us, — 

An old Abate, meek and mild, 

My friend and teacher, when a 
child, 

Who sometimes in those days. of 
old 

The legend of an Angel told, 

Which ran, as I remember, thus.’ 


THE SICILIAN’S TALE 
KING ROBERT OF SICILY 


ROBERT of Sicily, brother of Pope 
Urbane ) 

And Valmond, Emperor of Alle- 
maine, 

Apparelled in magnificent attire, 

With retinue of many a knight and 
squire, 

On St. John’s eve, at vespers, 
proudly sat 

And heard the priests chant the 
Magnificat. 

And as he listened, o’er and o’er 
again 

Repeated, like a burden or re- 
frain, 

He caught the words, ‘ Deposwit 
potentes 

De sede, et exaltavit humiles ;? 10 

And slowly lifting up his kingly 
head 

He to a learned clerk beside him 
said, 

What mean these words?’ The 
clerk made answer meet, 


‘He has put down the mighty from 
their seat, 

And has exalted them of low de- 
gree.’ 

Thereat King Robert muttered 
scornfully, 

‘>T is well that such seditious 
words are sung 

Only by priests and in the Latin 
tongue ; 

For unto priests and people be it 
known, 

There is no power can push me 
from my throne!’ 20 

And leaning back, he yawned and 
fell asleep, 

Lulled by the chant monotonous 
and deep. 


When he awoke, it was already 
night; 

The church was empty, and there 
was no light, 

Save where the lamps, that glim- 
mered few and faint, 

Lighted a little space before some 
saint. ‘ 

He started from his seat and gazed 
around, 

But saw no living thing and heard 
no sound. 

He groped towards the door, but 
it was locked ; 

He cried aloud, and listened, ane 
then knocked, 

And uttered awful fireatonines 
and complaints, 

And imprecations upon men and 
saints. 

The sounds reéchoed from the 
roof and walls 

As if dead priests were laughing 
in their stalls. 


At length the sexton, hearing from 
without 

The tumult of the knocking and 
the shout, 

And thinking thieves were in the 
house of prayer, 


276 





Came with his lantern, asking, 
‘Who is there?’ 

Half choked with rage, King Rob- 
ert fiercely said, 

‘Open: ‘tis I,the King! Art thou 
afraid ?? 40 

The frightened sexton, muttering, 
with a curse, 

‘This is some drunken vagabond, 
or worse!’ 

Turned the great key and flung 
the portal wide; 

A man rushed by him at a single 
stride, 

Haggard, half naked, without hat 
or cloak, 

Who neither turned, nor looked at 
him, nor spoke, 

But leaped into the blackness of 
the night, 

And vanished like a spectre from 
his sight. 


Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope 


Urbane 
And Valmond, Emperor of Alle- 
maine, 50 


Despoiled of his magnificent attire, 

Bareheaded, breathless, and _ be- 
sprent with mire, 

With sense of wrong and outrage 
desperate, 

Strode on and thundered at the 
palace gate; 

Rushed through the courtyard, 
thrusting in his rage 

To right and left each seneschal 
and page, 

And hurried up the broad and 
sounding stair, 

His white face ghastly in the 
torches’ glare. 

From hall to hall he passed with 
breathless speed ; 

Voices and eries he heard, but did 
not heed, 60 

Until at last he reached the ban- 
quet-room, 

Blazing with light, and breathing 
with perfume. 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





There on the dais sat another 
king, 

Wearing his robes, his crown, his 
signet-ring, 

King Robert’s self in features, 
form, and height, 

But all transfigured with angelic 


light! 

It was an Angel; and his presence 
there 

With a divine effulgence filled the 
air, 

An exaltation, piercing the dis 
guise, 

Though none the hidden Angel 
recognize. 79 


A moment speechless, motionless, 
amazed, 

The throneless monarch on the 
Angel gazed, 

Who met his look of anger and 
surprise 

With the divine compassion of his 
eyes; 

Then said, ‘Who art thou? and 
why com’st thou here?’ 

To which King Robert answered 
with a sneer, 

‘Tam the King, and come to claim 


my own 

From an impostor, who usurps my 
throne !? 

And suddenly, at these audacious 
words, 

Up sprang the angry guests, and 
drew their swords; 80 

The Angel answered, with unruf- 
fled brow, 


‘Nay, not the King, but the King’s 
Jester, thou 

Henceforth shalt wear the bells 
and scalloped cape, 

And for thy counsellor shalt lead 
an ape; 

Thou shalt obey my servants 
when they call, 

And wait upon my henchmen in 
the hall!’ 


THE SICILIAN’S TALE 





Deaf to King Robert’s threats and 
cries and prayers, 

They thrust him from the hall and 
down the stairs ; 

A group of tittering pages ran be- 


fore, 
And as they opened wide the fold- 
ing-door, go 


His heart failed, for he heard, with 
strange alarms, 

The boisterous laughter of the 

_ men-at-arms, 

And all the vaulted chamber roar 
and ring 

With the mock plaudits of ‘ Long 
live the King!’ 


Next morning, waking with the 
day’s first beam, 

He said within himself, ‘It was a 
dream!’ 

But the straw rustled as he turned 
his head, 

There were the cap and bells be- 
side his bed, 

Around him rose the bare, discol- 
ored walls, 

Close by, the steeds were champ- 
ing in their stalls, 100 

And in the corner, a revolting 
shape, 

Shivering and chattering sat the 
wretched ape. 

It was no dream; the world he 
loved so much 

Had turned to dust and ashes at 
his touch! 


Days came and went; and now re- 
turned again 

To Sicily the old Saturnian reign; 

Under the Angel’s governance be- 
nign 

The happy island danced with 
corn and wine, 

And deep within the mountain’s 
burning breast 

Enceladus, the giant, was at 
rest. 


277 


Meanwhile King Robert yielded to 
his fate, IL 

Sullen and silent, and disconso- 
late. 

Dressed in the motley garb that 
Jesters wear, 

With look bewildered and a vacant 
stare, 

Close shaven above the ears, as 
monks are shorn, 

By courtiers mocked, by pages 
laughed to scorn, 

His only friend the ape, his only food 

What others left, — he still was un- 
subdued, 

And when the Angel met him on 
his way, 

And half in earnest, half in jest, 
would say, 120 

Sternly, though tenderly, that he 
might feel 

The velvet scabbard held a sword 
of steel, 

‘Art thou the King?’ the passion 
of his woe 

Burst from him in resistless over- 
flow, 

And, lifting high his forehead, he 
would fling 

The haughty answer back, ‘ I am, 
I am the King!’ 


Almost three years were ended; 
when there came 

Ambassadors of great repute and 
name 

From Valmond, Emperor of Alle- 
maine, 

Unto King Robert, saying that 
Pope Urbane 130 

By letter summoned them forth- 
with to come 

On Holy Thursday to his city of 
Rome. 

The Angel with great joy received 
his guests, 

And gave them presents of em- 
broidered vests, 

And velvet mantles with rich er- 
mine lined, 


278 





And rings and jewels of the rarest 
kind. 

Then he departed with them o’er 

the sea 

Into the lovely land of Italy, 

Whose loveliness was more re- 
splendent made 

By the mere passing of that caval- 
cade, 140 

With plumes, and cloaks, and 
housings, and the stir 

Of jewelled bridle and of golden 
spur. 

And lo! among the menials, in 
mock state, 

Upon a piebald steed, with sham- 
bling gait, 

His cloak of fox-tails flapping in 
the wind, 

The solemn ape demurely perched 
behind, 

King Robert rode, making huge 
merriment 

In all the country towns through 
which they went. 


The Pope received them with great 
pomp and blare 

Of bannered trumpets, on Saint 
Peter’s square, 150 

Giving his benediction and em- 
brace, 

Fervent, and full of apostolic 
grace. 

While with congratulations and 
with prayers 

Me entertained the Angel una- 
wares, 

Robert, the Jester, 
through the crowd, 

Into their presence rushed, and 
cried aloud, 

‘I am the King! 
hold in me 

Robert, your brother, 
Sicily ! 

This man, who wears my sem- 
blance to your eyes, 


bursting 


Look, and _ be- 


King of 


Is an impostor in a king’s dis- 


guise. 160 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


——g 


Do you not know me? does no 
voice within 

Answer my cry, and say we are 
akin?’ 

The Pope in silence, but with 
troubled mien, 

Gazed at the Angel’s countenance 
serene; 

The Emperor, laughing, said, ‘It 
is strange sport 

To keep a madman for thy Fool at 
court !? 

And the poor, baffled Jester in dis- 
grace 

Was hustled back among the pop- 
ulace. 


In solemn state the Holy Week 


went by, 
And Easter Sunday gleamed upon 
the sky; 170 


The presence of the Angel, with 
its light, 

Before the sun rose, made the city 
bright, 

And with new fervor filled the 
hearts of men, 

Who felt that Christ indeed had 
risen again. 

Even the Jester, on his bed of 
straw, 

With haggard eyes the unwonted 
splendor saw, 

He felt within a power unfelt be- 
fore, 

And, kneeling humbly on his 
chamber floor, 

He heard the rushing garments of 
the Lord 

Sweep through the silent air, as- 
cending heavenward. 180 


And now the visit ending, and once 
more 

Valmond returning to the Dan- 
ube’s shore, 

Homeward the Angel journeyed, 
and again 

The land was made resplendent 
with his train, 

Flashing along the towns of Italy 


INTERLUDE 





Unto Salerno, and from thence by 
sea. 

And when once more within Pa- 
lermo’s wall, 

And, seated on the throne in his 
great hall, 

He heard the Angelus from con- 
vent towers, 

As if the better world conversed 
with ours, 190 

He beckoned to King Robert to 
draw nigher, 

And with a gesture bade the rest 
retire; 

And when they were alone, the 
Angel said, 

* Art thou the King?’ Then, bow- 
ing down his head, 

King Robert crossed both hands 
upon his breast, 

And meekly answered him: ‘ Thou 
knowest best! 

My sins as scarlet are; let me go 
hence, 

And in some cloister’s school of 
penitence, 

Across those stones, that pave the 
way to heaven, 

Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul 
be shriven !? 200 

ihe Angel smiled, and from his 
radiant face 

A holy light illumined all the 
place, 

And through the open window, 
loud and clear, 

They heard the monks chant in 
the chapel near, 

Above the stir and tumult of the 
street : 

*He has put down the mighty from 
their seat, 

And has exalted them of low de- 


gree!? 

And through the chant a second 
melody 

Rose like the throbbing of a single 
string: 

*Iam an Angel, and thou art the 
King !? 210 


279 





King Robert, who was standing 
near the throne, 

Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was 
alone! 

But all apparelled as in days of 
old, 

With ermined mantle and with 
cloth of gold; 

And when his courtiers came, they 
found him there 

Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed 
in silent prayer. 


INTERLUDE 


AND then the blue-eyed Norseman 
told 

A Saga of the days of old. 

‘There is,’ said he,‘a wondrous 
book 

Of Legends in the old Norse 
tongue, 

Of the dead kings of Norroway, — 

Legends that once were told or 
sung 

In many a smoky fireside nook 

Of Iceland, in the ancient day, 

By wandering Saga-man or Scald; 

‘Heimskringla” is the volume 
called ; 

And he who looks may find therein 

The story that I now begin.’ 


And in each pause the story made 

Upon his violin he played, 

AS an appropriate interlude, 

Fragments of old Norwegian tunes 

That bound in one the separate 
runes, 

And held the mind in_ perfect 
mood, 

Entwining and encircling all 

Thestrange andantiquatedrhymes 

With melodies of olden times ; 

AS over some half-ruined wall, 

Disjointed and about to fall, 

Fresh woodbines climb and inter. 
lace, 

And keep the loosened stones in 
place. 


280 





THE MUSICIAN’S TALE 
THE SAGA OF KING OLAF 
I 
THE CHALLENGE OF THOR 


I AM the God Thor, 

Iam the War God, 

Iam the Thunderer ! 
Here in my Northland, 
My fastness and fortress, 
Reign I forever ! 


Here amid icebergs 

Rule I the nations ; 

This is my hammer, 

Miolner the mighty ; 10 
Giants and sorcerers 

Cannot withstand it! 


These are the gauntlets 
Wherewith I wield it, 
And hurl it afar off ; 
This is my girdle; 
Whenever I brace it, 
Strength is redoubled ! 


The light thou beholdest 
Stream through the heavens, 20 
In flashes of crimson, 

Is but my red beard 

Blown by the night-wind, 
Affrighting the nations! 


Jove is my brother ; 

Mine eyes are the lightning; 
The wheels of my chariot 

Roll in the thunder, 

The blows of my hammer 

Ring in the earthquake! 30 


Force rules the world still, 
Has ruled it, shall rule it; 
Meekness is weakness, 
Strength is triumphant, 
Over the whole earth 

Still is it Thor’s-Day ! 


Thou art a God too, 
O Galilean! 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


And thus single-handed 

Unto the combat, 40 
Gauntlet or Gospel, 

Here I defy thee! 


II 
KING OLAF’S RETURN 


And King Olaf heard the ery, 
Saw the red light in the sky, 

Laid his hand upon his sword, 
As he leaned upon the railing, 
And his ships went sailing, sailing 

Northward into Drontheim fiord. 


There he stood as one who 
dreamed ; 

And the red light glanced and 
gleamed 50 


On the armor that he wore; 
And he shouted, as the rifted 
Streamers o’er him shook and 

shifted, 

‘T accept thy challenge, Thor !? 


To avenge his father slain, 

And reconquer realm and reign, 
Came the youthful Olaf home, 
Through the midnight sailing, sail- 

ing, 
Listening to the wild wind’s wail- 
ing, 
And the dashing of the foam. 60 


To his thoughts the sacred name 
Of his mother Astrid came, 
And the tale she oft had told 
Of her flight by secret passes 
Through the mountains and mo. 
rasses, 
To the home of Hakon old. 


Then strange memories crowded 
back 

Of Queen Gunhild’s wrath and 
wrack, 

And a hurried flight by sea; 6g 
Of grim Vikings, and the rapture 
Of the sea-fight, and the capture, 

And the life of slavery. 


THE’ MUSICIAN’S TALE 





How a stranger watched his face 
Tn the Esthonian market-place, 
Scanned his features one by one, 
Saying, ‘We should know each 
other ; 
Iam Sigurd, Astrid’s brother, 
Thou art Olaf, Astrid’s son!? 


Then as Queen Allogia’s page, 
Old in honors, young in age, 80 
Chief of all her men-at-arms ; 
Tillvague whispers and mysterious 
Reached King Valdemar, the im- 
perious, 
Filling him with strange alarms. 


Then his cruisings o’er the seas, 
Westward to the Hebrides 
And to Scilly’s rocky shore; 
And the hermit’s cavern dismal, 
Christ’s great name and rites bap- 
tismal 
In the ocean’s rush and roar. go 


All these thoughts of love and 
strife : 
Glimmered through his lurid life, 
As the stars’ intenser light 
Through the red flames o’er him 
trailing, 
As his ships went sailing, sailing 
Northward in the summer night. 


Trained for either camp or court, . 
Skilful in each manly sport, 
Young and beautiful and tall; 
Art of warfare, craft of chases, roo 
Swimming, skating, snow-shoe 
races, 
Excellent alike in all. 


* When at sea, with all his rowers, 
He along the bending oars 
Outside of his ship could run. 
He the Smalsor Horn ascended, 
And his shining shield suspended 
On its summit, like a sun. 108 


On the ship-rails he could stand, 
Wield his sword with either hand, 
And at once two javelins throw; 
At all feasts where ale was stron- 
gest 


281 


en eee 


Sat the merry monarch longest, 
First to come and last to go. 


Norway never yet had seen 
One so beautiful of mien, 
One so royal in attire, 
When in arms completely fur- 
nished, 
Harness gold-inlaid and burnished, 
Mantle like a flame of fire. 120 


Thus came Olaf to his own, 
When upon the night-wind blown 
Passed that cry along the shore; 
And he answered, while the rifted 
Streamers over him shook and 
shifted, 
*T accept thy challenge, Thor !? 


III 
THORA OF RIMOL 


‘Thora of Rimol! hide me! hide 
me! 
Danger and shame and death be- 
tide me! 
For Olaf the King is hunting me 
down 
Through field and forest, through 
thorp and town!’ 130 
Thus cried Jarl Hakon 
To Thora, the fairest of wo- 
men. 


‘Hakon Jarl! for the love I bear 
thee 
Neither shall shame nor death 
come near thee! 
But the hiding-place wherein thou 
must lie 
Is the cave underneath the swine 
in the sty.’ 
Thus to Jarl Hakon 
Said Thora, the fairest of wo. 
men. 


So Hakon Jarl and his base thrall 
Karker 

Crouched in the cave, than a dun- 
geon darker, 140 


282 


As Olaf came riding, with men in 
mail, 
Through the forest roads into 
Orkadale, 
Demanding Jarl Hakon 
Of Thora, the fairest of women. 


*Rich and honored shall be who- 
ever 

The head of Hakon Jarl shall dis- 
sever !? 


Hakon heard him, and Karker the 


slave, 
Through the breathing-holes of 
the darksome cave. 
Alone in her chamber 
Wept Thora, the fairest of wo- 
men. 150 


Said Karker, the crafty, ‘ I will not 
slay thee! 
For all the king’s gold I will never 
betray thee!’ 
*Then why dost thou turn so pale, 
O churl, 
And then again black as the 
earth?’ said the Earl. 
More pale and more faithful 
Was Thora, the fairest of wo- 
men. 


From a dream in the night the 
thrall started, saying, 
*Round my neck a gold ring King 

Olaf was laying!’ 
And Hakon answered, ‘ Beware of 


the king! 
He will lay round thy neck a blood- 
red ring.’ 160 


At the ring on her finger 
Gazed Thora, the fairest of 
women. 


At daybreak slept Hakon, with 
sorrows encumbered, 

But screamed and drew up his 
feet as he slumbered ; 

The thrall in the darkness plunged 
with his knife, 

And the Earl awakened no more 
in this life. 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





But wakeful and weeping 
Sat Thora, the fairest of wa 
men. 


At Nidarholm the priests are all 
singing, 
Two ghastly heads on the gibbet 
are swinging ; 170 
One is Jarl Hakon’s and one is his 
thrall’s, 
And the people are shouting from 
windows and walls ; 
While alone in her chamber 
Swoons Thora, the fairest of 
women. 


IV 
QUEEN SIGRID THE HAUGHTY 


Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat 
proud and aloft 
In her chamber, that looked over 
meadow and croft. 
Heart’s dearest, 
Why dost thou sorrow so? 


The floor with tassels of fir was 
besprent, 

Filling the room with their fra- 
grant scent. 180 


She heard the birds sing, she saw 

f the sun shine, 

The air of summer was sweeter 
than wine. 


Like a sword without scabbard 
the bright river lay 

Between her own kingdom and 
Norroway. 


But Olaf the King had sued for 
her hand, 

The sword would be sheathed, the 
river be spanned. 


Her maidens were seated around 
her knee, 

Working bright figures in tapes 
try, ; 


THE MUSICIAN’S TALE 





And one was singing the ancient 
rune 

Of Brynhilda’s love and the wrath 
of Gudrun, 190 


And through it, and round it, and 
over it all 
Sounded incessant the waterfall. 


The Queen in her hand held a ring 
of gold, 

From the door of Ladé’s Temple 
old. 


King Olaf had sent her this wed- 
ding gift, 

But her thoughts as arrows were 
keen and swift. 


She had given the ring to her gold- 
smiths twain, 

Who smiled, as they handed it back 
again. 


And Sigrid the Queen, in her 
haughty way, 

Said, ‘ Why do you smile, my gold- 
smiths, say?’ 200 


And they answered: ‘O Queen! if 
the truth must be told, 

The ring is of copper, and not of 
gold!’ 


The lightning flashed o’er her fore- 
head and cheek, 

She only murmured, she did not 
speak : 


‘If in his gifts he can faithless 
be, 

There will be no gold in his love 
to me.’ 


A footstep was heard on the outer 
Stair, 

And in strode King Olaf with royal 
air. 


He kissed the Queen’s hand, and 
he whispered of love, 


283 


And swore to be true as the stars 
are above. 210 





But she smiled with contempt as 
she answered: ‘O King, 

Will you swear it, as Odin once 
swore, on the ring?’ 


And the King: ‘O speak not of 
Odin to me, 

The wife of King Olaf a Christian 
must be. 


Looking straight at the King, with 
her level brows, 

She said, ‘I keep true to my faith 
and my vows.’ 


Then the face of King Olaf was 
darkened with gloom, 

He rose in his anger and strode 
through the room. 


‘Why, then, should I care to have 
thee?’ he said, 

‘A faded old woman, a heathenish 
jade!’ 220 


His zeal was stronger than fear or 
love 

And he struck the Queen in the 
face with his glove. 


Then forth from the chamber in 
anger he fled, 

And the wooden stairway shook 
with his tread. 


Queen Sigrid the Haughty said 
under her breath, 
‘This insult, King Olaf, shall be 
thy death!’ 
Heart’s dearest, 
Why dost thou sorrow so? 


Vv 
THE SKERRY OF SHRIEKS 
Now from all King Olaf’s farms 


His men-at-arms 230 
Gathered on the Eve of Easter ; 


284 





To his house at Angvalds-ness 
Fast they press, 
Drinking with the royal feaster. 


Loudly through the wide- flung 
door 
Came the roar 
Of the sea upon the Skerry; 
And its thunder loud and near 
Reached the ear, 239 
Mingling with their voices merry. 


*Hark !’ said Olaf to his Scald, 
Halfred the Bald, 

‘Listen to that song, and learn it! 

Half my kingdom would I give, 
As I live, 

If by such songs you would earn it! 


‘For of all the runes and rhymes 
Of all times, 
Best I like the ocean’s dirges, 
When the old harper heaves and 
rocks, 250 
His hoary locks 
Flowing and flashing in the sur- 
ges!? 


Halfred answered: *I am called 
The Unappalled! 
Nothing hinders me or daunts me. 
Hearken to me, then, O King, 
While I sing 
The great Ocean Song that haunts 
me.’ 


*T will hear your song sublime 
Some other time,’ 260 
Says the drowsy monarch, yawn- 
ing, 
And retires; each laughing guest 
Applauds the jest; 
Then they sleep till day is dawning, 


Pacing up and down the yard, 
King Olaf’s guard 
Saw the sea-mist slowly creeping 
O’er the sands, and up the hill, 
Gathering stil] 
Round the house where they were 
sleeping. 270 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


——eae 


It was not the fog he saw, 
Nor misty flaw, 
That above the landscape broodec 
It was Eyvind Kallda’s crew 
Of warlocks blue 
With their caps of darknes: 
hooded! 


Round and round the house they 
£0, 
Weaving slow 
Magie circles to encumber 
And imprison in their ring 
Olaf the King, 
As he helpless lies in slumber. 


28a 


Then athwart the vapors dun 
The Easter sun 
Streamed with one broad track of 
splendor! 
In their real forms appeared 
The warlocks weird, 
Awful as the Witch of Endor. 


Blinded by the light that glared, 
They groped and stared, — 29 
Round about with steps unsteady; 
From his window Olaf gazed, 
And, amazed, 
‘Who are these strange people ?* 
said he. 


‘Eyvind Kallda and his men!’ 
Answered then 

From the yard a sturdy farmer; 

While the men-at-arms apace 
Filled the place, 

Busily buckling on their armor. 300 


From the gates they sallied forth, 
South and north, 
Seoured the island coast around 
them, 
Seizing all the warlock band, 
Foot and hand 
On the Skerry’s rocks they bound 
them. 


And at eve the king again 
Called his train, 
And, with all the candles burning 


THE MUSICIAN’S TALE 





Silent sat and heard once more 310 
The sullen roar 
Of the ocean tides returning. 


Shrieks and cries of wild despair 
Filled the air, 
Growing fainter as they listened; 
Then the bursting surge alone 
Sounded on ;— 
Thus the sorcerers were chris- 
tened! 


‘Sing, O Scald, your song sublime, 
Your ocean-rhyme,’ 320 
Cried King Olaf: ‘it will cheer 
me!? 
Said the Scald, with pallid cheeks, 
‘The Skerry of Shrieks 
Sings too loud for you to hear me!’ 


Val 
THE WRAITH OF ODIN 


The guests were loud, the ale was 
strong, 
King Olaf feasted late and long; 
The hoary Scalds together sang ; 
O’erhead the smoky rafters rang. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fo- 
gelsang. 


The door swung wide, with creak 
and din; 330 

A blast of cold night-air came in, 

And on the threshold shivering 


stood 

A one-eyed guest, with cloak and 
hood. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fo- 

gelsang. 

The King exclaimed, ‘ O graybeard 
pale! 

Come warm thee with this cup of 
ale.’ 

The foaming draught the old man 
quaffed, 

The noisy guests looked on and 
laughed. 


Dead rides Sir Morten of Fo- 
gelsang. 


285 


___  ———— | 


Then spake the King: ‘Ee not 

afraid: 340 

here by me.” The guest 

obeyed, 

And, seated at the table, told 

Tales of the sea, and Sagas old. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fo- 

gelsang. 


Sit 


And ever. when the tale was o’er, 
The King demanded yet one more ; 
Till Sigurd the Bishop smiling 
said, 
‘Tis late, O King, and time for 
bed.’ 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fo- 
gelsang. 


The King retired; the stranger 


guest 350 
Followed and entered with the 
rest; 
The lights were out, the pages 
gone, 
But still the garrulous guest spake 
on. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fo: 
gelsang. 


As one who from a volume reads, 
He spake of heroes and their 
deeds, 
Of lands and cities he had seen, 
And stormy gulfs that tossed be- 
tween, 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fo- 
gelsang. 


Then from his lips in music rolled 
The Havamal of Odin old, 361 
With sounds mysterious as the 
roar 
Of billows on a distant shore. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fo- 
gelsang. 


‘Do we not learn from runes and 
rhymes 

Made by the gods in elder times, 

And do not still the great Scalds 
teach 


286 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





That silence better is than 
speech?’ 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fo- 
gelsang. 


Smiling at this, the King re- 
plied, 370 
‘Thy lore is by thy tongue belied; 
For never was I so enthralled 
Either by Saga-man or Scald.? 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fo- 
' gelsang. 


The Bishop said, ‘ Late hours we 
keep! 

Night wanes, O King! ’tis time 
for sleep!? 

Then slept the King, and when he 
woke 

The guest was gone, the morning 
broke. 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fo- 

gelsang. 


They found the doors securely 


barred, ; 380 
They found the watch-dog in the 
yard, 


There was no footprint in the grass, 
And none had seen the stranger 
pass. 
Dead rides Sir Morten of Fo- 
gelsang. 


King Olaf crossed himself and 
said : 

‘I know that Odin the Great is 
dead ; 

Sure is the triumph of our Faith, 

‘whe one-eyed stranger was his 
wraith.’ 

Dead rides Sir Morten of Fo- 

gelsang. 


VII 


ITRON-BEARD 


Olaf the King, one summer 
morn, 390 
Blew a blast on his bugle-horn, 


Sending his signal through the 
land of Drontheim. 


And to the Hus-Ting held at 
Mere 
Gathered the farmers far and 
near, 
With their war weapons ready to 
confront him. 


Ploughing under the morning 
star, 
Old Iron-Beard in Yriar 
Heard the summons, chuckling 
with a low laugh. 


He wiped the sweat-drops from 


his brow, 
Unharnessed his horses from the 
plough, 400 


And clattering came on horseback 
to King Olaf. 


He was the churliest of the 
churls; 
Little he cared for king or earls; 
Bitter as home-brewed ale were 
his foaming passions, 


Hodden-gray was the garb he 
wore, 
And by the Hammer of Thor he 
swore; 
He hated the narrow town, and all 
its fashions. 


But he loved the freedom of his 
farm, 

His ale at night, by the fireside 
warm, 

Gudrun his daughter, with her 

flaxen tresses. 41C 


He loved his horses and his 
herds, 
The smell of the earth, and the 
song of birds, 
His wellfilled barns, his brook 
with its watercresses. 


Huge and cumbersome was hig 
frame ; 


THE MUSICIAN’S TALE 


=———— 


His beard, from which he took 
his name, 
Frosty and fierce, like that of Hy- 
mer the Giant. 


So at the Hus-Ting he appeared, 

The farmer of Yriar, Iron-beard, 

On horseback, in an attitude de- 
fiant. 


And to King Olaf he cried 

aloud, 420 

Out of the middle of the crowd, 

That tossed about him like a 
stormy ocean: | 


‘Such sacrifices shalt thou bring 
To Odin and to Thor, O King, 
As other kings have done in their 

devotion !? 


King Olaf answered: ‘I com- 
mand 
This land to bea Christian land ; 
Here is my Bishop who the folk 
baptizes ! 


‘But if you ask me to restore 
Your sacrifices, stained with 
gore, 430 
Then will I offer human sacrifices ! 


‘Not slaves and peasants shall 
they be, 
But men of note and high de- 
gree, 
Such men as Orm of Lyra and Kar 
of Gryting!’ 


Then to their Temple strode he 
in, 
And loud behind him heard the 
din 
Of his men-at-arms and the pea- 
sants fiercely fighting. 


There in the Temple, carved in 
wood, 
The image of great Odin stood, 
Andother gods, with Thor supreme 
among them. 440 


287 


King Olaf smote them with the 
blade 
Of his huge war-axe, gold inlaia, 
And downward shattered to the 
pavement flung them. 


At the same moment rose with- 
out, 
From the contending erowd, a 
shout, 
A mingled sound of triumph and 
of wailing. 


And there upon the trampled 
plain 
The farmer Iron-Beard lay slain, 
Midway between the assailed and 
the assailing. 


King Olaf from the doorway 


spoke: 459 
* Choose ye between two things, 
my folk. 


To be baptized or given up to 
slaughter !? 


And seeing their leader stark 
and deac, 
The people with a murmur said, 
‘O King, baptize us with thy holy 
water.’ 


So all the Drontheim land be- 
came 
A Christian land in name and 
fame, 
Inthe old gods no more believing 
and trusting. 


And as a blood-atonement, soon 

King Olaf wed the fair Gud- 

run ; 46c 

And thus in peace ended the Dron: 
theim Hus-Ting! 


VIIl 


GUDRUN 


On King Olaf’s bridal night 
Shines the moon with tender light 


288 


And across the chamber streams 
Its tide of dreams. 


At the fatal midnight hour, 
When all evil things have power, 
In the glimmer of the mvon 

Stands Gudrun. 469 
Close against her heaving breast 
Something in her hand is pressed ; 
Like an icicle, its sheen 

Is cold and keen. 


On the cairn are fixed her eyes 

Where her murdered father lies, 

And a voice remote and drear 
She seems to hear. 


What a bridal night is this! 

Cold will be the dagger’s kiss ; 

Laden with the chill of death 480 
Is its breath. 


Like the drifting snow she sweeps 
To the couch where Olaf sleeps; 
Suddenly he wakes and stirs, 

His eyes meet hers. 


‘What is that,’ King Olaf said, 
‘Gleams so bright above my 
head? 
Wherefore standest thou so white 
In pale moonlight ?? 


‘°T is the bodkin that I wear 

When at night I bind my hair; 

It woke me falling on the floor; 
*T is nothing more.’ 


490 


‘Forests have ears, and fields have 
eyes; 
Often treachery lurking lies 
Underneath the fairest hair! 
Gudrun beware!’ 


Ere the earliest peep of morn 

Blew King Olaf’s bugle-horn; 

And forever sundered ride 
Bridegroom and bride! 


500 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


IX 
THANGBRAND THE PRIEST 


Short of stature, large of limb, 
Burly face and russet beard, 

All the women stared at him, 
When in Iceland he appeared. 
‘Look!’ they said, 

With nodding head, 
‘There goes Thangbrand, Olaf’s 
Priest.’ 


All the prayers he knew by rote, 
He could preach like Chrysos- 
tome, 510 
From the fathers he could quote, 
He had even been at Rome. 
A learned clerk, 
A man of mark, 
this Thangbrand, 
Priest. 


Was Olaf’s 


He was quarrelsome and loud, 
And impatient of control, 
Boisterous in the market crowd, 
Boisterous at the wassail-bowl, 
Everywhere 520 
Would drink and swear, 
Swaggering Thangbrand, Olatf’s 
Priest. 


In his house this malcontent 
Could the King no longer bear, 
So to Iceland he was sent 
To convert the heathen there, 


And away 
One summer day 

Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf’s 
Priest. 529 


There in Iceland, o’er their books 
Pored the people day and night, - 
But he did not like their looks, 
Nor the songs they used ta 
write. 
‘All this rhyme 
Is waste of time!’ 
Grumbled Thangbrand, 
Priest. 5 


Olat’s 


THE MUSICIAN’S TALE 





To the alehouse, where he sat, 
Came the Scalds and Saga-men; 
Is it to be wondered at 
That they quarrelled now and 
then, 540 
When o’er his beer 
Began to leer 
Drunken Thangbrand, 
Priest? 


Olaf’s 


All the folk in Altafiord 
Boasted of their island grand ; 
Saying in a single word, 
‘Iceland is the finest land 
That the sun 
Doth shine upon!? 
Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf’s 
Priest. 550 


And he answered: ‘ What’s the 
use 
Of this bragging up and down, 
When three women and one goose 
Make a market in your town!’ 
Every Scald 
Satires drawled 
On poor Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. 


Something worse they did than 
that; 
And what vexed him most of 
all 
Was a figure in shovel hat, 560 
Drawn in charcoal on the wall; 
With words that go 
Sprawling below, 
‘This is Thangbrand, 
Priest.’ 


Olaf’s 


Hardly knowing what he did, 
Then he smote them might and 
: main, 
Thorvald Veile and Veterlid 
Lay there in the alehouse slain. 
‘To-day we are gold, 


To-morrow moulq!? 570 
Muttered Thangbrand,  Olaf’s 
Priest. 


Much in fear of axe and rope, 
Back to Norway sailed he then. 


289 





‘O King Olaf! little hope 
Is there of these Iceland men!’ 
Meekly said, 
With bending head, 
Pious Thangbrand, Olaf’s Priest. 


x 
RAUD THE STRONG 


‘All the old gods are dead, 
All the wild warlocks fled; 580 
But the White Christ lives and 
reigns, 

And throughout my wide domains 
His Gospel shall be spread!’ 

On the Evangelists 

Thus swore King Olaf. 


But still in dreams of the night 

Beheld he the crimson light, 

And keard the voice that defied 

Him who was crucified, 

And challenged him to the fight. 
To Sigurd the Bishop 591 
King Olaf confessed it. 


And Sigurd the Bishop said, 
‘The old gods are not dead, 
For the great Thor still reigns, 
And among the Jarls and Thanes 
The old witchcraft still is spread.’ 
Thus to King Olaf 
Said Sigurd the Bishop. 


‘Far north in the Salten Fiord, 600 

By rapine, fire, and sword, 

Lives the Viking, Raud the 

Strong; 

All the Godoe Isles belong 

To him and his heathen horde.’ 
Thus went on speaking 
Sigurd the Bishop. 


‘A warlock, a wizard is he, 

And the lord of the wind and the 
sea; 

And whichever way he Sails, 

He has ever favoring gales, 

By his craft in sorcery.’ 


610 


290 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





Here the sign of the cross 
Made devoutly King Olaf. 


‘With rites that we both abhor, 
He worships Odin and Thor; 
So it cannot yet be said, 

That all the old gods are dead, 
And the warlocks are no more,’ 
Flushing with anger 

Said Sigurd the Bishop. 620 
Then King Olaf cried aloud: 
‘I will talk with this mighty 
Raud, 
And along the Salten Fiord 
Preach the Gospel with my sword, 
Or be brought back in my 
shroud!’ 
So northward from Drontheim 
Sailed King Olaf! 


XI 


BISHOP SIGURD OF 
FIORD 


SALTEN 


Loud the angry wind was wailing 
As King Olaf’s ships came sail- 


ing 
Northward out of Drontheim 
haven 630 


To the mouth of Salten Fiord. 


Though the flying sea - spray 
drenches 
Fore and aft the rowers’ benches, 
Not a single heart is craven 
Of the champions there on 
board. 


All without the Fiord was quiet, 
But within it storm and riot, 
Such as on his Viking cruises 
Raud the Strong was wont to 
ride. 


And the sea through all its tide- 
ways 640 

Swept the reeling vessels side- 
ways, 


As the leaves are swept through 
sluices, 
When the flood-gates open 
wide. 


‘°Tis the warlock! ‘tis the de- 
mon 
Raud!? eried Sigurd to the sear 
men; 
*But the Lord is not affrighted 
By the witchcraft of his foes,’ 


To the ship’s bow he ascended, 
By his choristers attended, 
KRound him were the _ tapers 
lighted, 650 
And the sacred incense rose. 


On the bow stood Bishop Sigurd, 

In his robes, as one transfigured, 

And the Crucifix he pJanted 
High amid the rain and mist. 


Then with holy water sprinkled 
All the ship; the mass-bells tim 
kled: 
Loud the monks around him 
chanted, 
Loud he read the Evangelist. 


As into the Fiord they darted, 660 
On each side the water parted; 
Down a path like silver molten 
Steadily rowed King Olaf’s 
ships; 


Steadily burned all night the 
tapers, 

And the White Christ through the 
vapors 

Gleamed across the Fiord of 
Salten, 
As through John’s Apoca 
lypse, — 


Till at last they reached Raud’s 
dwelling 
On the little isle of Gelling; 669 
Not a guard was at the dcorway, 
Not a glimmer of light was 
seen, 


THE MUSICIAN’S TALE 


But at anchor, carved and gilded, 
Lay the dragon-ship he builded ; 
’T was the grandest ship in Nor- 
way, 
With its crest and scales of 
green. 


Up the stairway, softly creeping, 
To the loft where Raud was sleep- 
ing, 
With their fists they burst asunder 
Bolt and bar that held the 
door. 


Drunken with sleep and ale they 
found him, 680 

Dragged him from his bed and 
bound him, 

While he stared with stupid won- 
der 

At the look and garb they 

wore. 


Then King Olaf said : ‘O Sea-King! 
Little time have we for speak- 
ing, 
Choose between the good and evil; 
Be baptized! or thou shalt 
die!’ 


But in scorn the heathen scoffer 

Answered: ‘I disdain thine offer; 

Neither fear I God nor Devil; 690 
Theé and thy Gospel I defy!? 


Then between his jaws distended, 
When his frantic struggles ended, 
Through King Olaf’s horn an ad- 
der, 
Touched by fire, they forced to 
glide. 


Sharp his tooth was as an arrow, 
As he gnawed through bone and 
marrow ; 
But without a groan or shudder, 
Raud the Strong blaspheming 
died. 699 


Then baptized they all that region, 
Swarthy Lap and fair Norwegian, 


291 





Far as swims the salmon, leaping, 
Up the streams of Salten Fiord. 


In their temples Thor and Odin 
Lay in dust and ashes trodden, 
As King Olaf, onward sweeping, 
Preached the Gospel with his 
sword. 


Then he took the carved and 


gilded 

Dragon-ship that Raud had 
builded, 

And the tiller single-handed 710 
Grasping, steered into the 
main. 


Southward sailed the sea-gulls o’er 
him, 
Southward sailed the ship that 
bore him, 
Till at Drontheim haven landed 
Olaf and his crew again. 


XII 
KING OLAF’S CHRISTMAS 


At Drontheim, Olaf the King 

Heard the bells of Yule-tide ring, 
As he sat in his banquet-hall, 

Drinking the nut-brown ale, 719 

With his bearded Berserks hale 
And tall. 


Three days his Yule-tide feasts 
He held with Bishops and Priests, 
And his horn filled up to the 
brim: 
But the ale was never too strong, 
Nor the Saga-man’s tale too long, 
For him. 


O’er his drinking-horn, the sign 
He made of the cross divine, 
As he drank, and muttered his 
prayers; 730 
But the Berserks evermore 
Made the sign of the Hammer of 
Thor 
Over theirs. 


292 


The gleams of the fire-light dance 

Upon helmet and hauberk and 
lance, 

And laugh in the eyes of the 
King; 

And he eries to Halfred the Seald, 

Gray-bearded, wrinkled, and bald, 
‘Sing !? 


* Sing me a song divine, 
With a sword in every line, 
And this shall be thy reward.’ 
And he loosened the belt at his 
waist, 
And in front of the singer placed 
His sword. 


740 


*Quern-biter of Hakon the Good, 
Wherewith at a stroke he hewed 
The millstone through and 


through, 
And Foot-breadth of Thoralf the 
Strong, 749 


Were neither so broad nor so long, 
Nor so true.’ 


Then the Scald took his harp and 
sang, 
And loud through the musie rang 
The sound of that shining 
word; 
And the harp-strings a clangor 
made, 
As if they were struck with the 
blade 
Of a sword. 


And the Berserks round about 
Broke forth into a shout 759 
That made the rafters ring: 
They smote with their fists on the 
board, 
And shouted, ‘Long live the Sword, 
And the King!’ 


But the King said, ‘O my son, 
I miss the bright word in one 
Of thy measures and thy 
rhymes.’ 
And Halfred the Scald replied, 
‘In another ’t was multiplied 
Three times.’ 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


Then King Olaf raised the hilt 77a 

Of iron, cross-shaped and gilt, 
And said, ‘ Do not refuse; 

Count well the gain and the loss, 

Thor’s hammer or Christ’s cross: 
Choose!’ 


And Halfred the Scald said, ‘ This 
In the name of the Lord I kiss, 
Who on it was crucified !’ 
Anda shout went round the board, 
‘In the name of Christ the Lord, 
Who died !? 781 


Then over the waste of snows 
The noonday sun uprose, 
Through the driving mists re 
vealed, 
Like the lifting of the Host, 
By incense-clouds almost 
Concealed. 


On the shining wall a vast 
And shadowy cross was cast 
From the hilt of the lifted 
sword, : 799 
And in foaming cups of ale 
The Berserks drank *‘ Was-hael! 
To the Lord!’ 


XIII 


THE BUILDING OF THE LONG 
SERPENT 


Thorberg Skafting, master-builder, 
In his ship-yard by the sea, 
Whistling, said,‘ It would bewilder 
Any man but Thorberg Skafting, 

Any man but me!’ 


Near him lay the Dragon stranded.. 
Built of old by Raud the 
Strong, 80e 
And King Olaf had commanded 
He should build another Dragon, 
Twice as large and long. 


Therefore whistled 
Skafting, 
As he sat with half-closed 
eyes, 


Thorberg 


THE MUSICIAN'S TALE 


293 





And his head turned sideways, 
drafting 
That new vessel for King Olaf 
Twice the Dragon’s size. 


Round him busily hewed and ham- 
mered 809 
Mallet huge and heavy axe; 
Workmen laughed and sang and 
clamored ; 
Whirred the wheels, that into rig- 
ging 
Spun the shining flax! 


Ail this tumult heard the master, — 
It was music to his ear; 
Fancy whispered all the faster, 
‘Men shall hear of Thorberg 
Skafting 
For a hundred year !? 818 
Workmen sweating at the forges 
Fashioned iron bolt and bar, 
Like a warlock’s midnight orgies 
Smoked and bubbled the black 
ealdron ’ 
With the boiling tar. 


Did the warlocks mingle in it, 
Thorberg Skafting, any curse? 

Could you not be gone a minute 

But some mischief must be doing, 
Turning bad to worse? 


’T was an ill wind that came waft- 
ing 
From his homestead words of 
woe; 830 
To his farm went Thorberg Skaft- 
ing, 
Oft repeating to his workmen, 
Build ye thus and so. 


After long delays returning 
Came the master back by 


night ; _ 

To his ship-yard longing, yearn- 
ing, 

Hurried he, and did not leave 
it 


Till the morning’s light. 


‘Come and see my ship, my dar. 


ling!? 
On the morrow said the 
King; 840 
‘Finished now from keel to car- 
ling ; 


Never yet was seen in Norway 
Such a wondrous thing !? 


In the ship-yard, idly talking, 
At the ship the workmen 
stared: 
Some one, all their labor balking, 
Down her sides had cut deep 
gashes, 
Not a plank was spared ! 


‘ Death be to the evil-doer!? 
With an oath King Olaf 
spoke ; 850 
‘But rewards to his pursuer!? 
And with wrath his face grew red- 
der 
Than his scarlet cloak. 


Straight the master-builder, smil- 
ing, 
Answered thus the angry 
King: 
‘Cease blaspheming and reviling, 
Olaf, it was Thorberg Skafting 
Who has done this thing !? 


Then he chipped and smoothed 
the planking, 


Till the King, delighted, 

swore, 860 

With much lauding and much 
thanking, 


‘Handsomer is now my Dragon 
Than she was before!? 


Seventy ells and four extended 
On the grass the vessel’s keel; 

High above it, gilt and splendid, 

Rose the figure-head ferocious 
With its crest of steel. 


Then they launched her from the 
tressels, 
In the ship-yard by the sea; 870 


204 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





She was the grandest of all vessels, 
Never ship was built in Norway 
Half so fine as she! 


The Long Serpent was she chris- 
tened, 

’Mid the roar of cheer on cheer! 
They who to the Saga listened 
Heard the name of Thorberg 

Skafting , 

For a hundred year! 


XIV 


“THE CREW OF THE LONG SER- 
PENT 


Safe at anchor in Drontheim bay 
King Olaf’s fleet assembled lay, 880 
And, striped with white and blue, 
Downward fluttered sail and ban- 
ner, 
As alights the screaming lanner; 
Lustily cheered, in their wild man- 
ner, 
The Long Serpent’s crew. 


Her forecastle man was Ulf the 
Red; 

Like a wolf’s was his shaggy head, 
His teeth as large and white; 
His beard, of gray and russet 

blended, 
Round as a swallow’s nest de- 
scended ; 890 
As standard-bearer he defended 
Olaf’s flag in the fight. 


Near him Kolbiorn had his place, 

Like the King in garb and face, 
So gallant and so hale; 

Every cabin-boy and varlet 

Wondered at his cloak of scarlet; 

Like a river, frozen and star-lit, 
Gleamed his coat of mail. 


By the bulkhead, talland dark, 900 

Stood Thrand Rame of Thelemark, 
A figure gaunt and grand; 

On his hairy arm imprinted 

Was an anchor, azure-tinted; 


Like Thor’s hammer, huge and 
dinted 
Was his brawny hand. 


Einar Tamberskelver, bare 
To the winds his golden hair, 

By the mainmast stood ; 
Graceful was his form, and slen- 


der, gta 
And his eyes were deep and ten. 
der 


AS &@ woman’s, in the splendor 
Of her maidenhood. 


In the fore-hold Biorn and Bork 
Watched the sailors at their work: 
Heavens! how they swore! 
Thirty men they each commanded, 
Tron-sinewed, horny-handed, 
Shoulders broad, and chests ex- 
panded, 
Tugging at the oar. 92a 
These, and many more like these, 
With King Olaf sailed the seas, 
Till the waters vast 
Filled them with a vague devo- 
tion, 
With the freedom and the motion, 
With the roll and roar of ocean 
And the sounding blast. 


When they landed from the fleet, 
How they roared through Dron 
theim’s street, 
Boisterous as the gale! 9390 
How they laughed and stamped 
and pounded, 
Till the tavern roof resounded 
And the host Jooked on astounded 
As they drank the ale! 


Never saw the wild North Sea 
Such a gallant company 
Sail its billows blue! 
Never, while they cruised and 
quarrelled, 
Old King Gorm, or Blue-Tootk 
Harald, 
Owned a ship so well apparelled, 
Boasted such a crew! 94. 


THE MUSICIAN’S TALE 


xv 
A LITTLE BIRD IN THE AIR 


A little bird in the air 
Ts singing of Thyri the fair, 

The sister of Svend the Dane; 
And the song of the garrulous bird 
In the streets of the townis heard, 

And repeated again and again. 

Hoist up your sails of silk, 
And flee away from each 
other. 


To King Buristaf, it is said, 
Was the beautiful Thyri wed, 
And a sorrowful bride went she; 
And after a week and a day 
She has fled away and away 
From his town by the stormy sea. 
Hoist up your sails of silk, 
And flee away from each other. 


959 


They say, that through heat and 
through cold, 
Through weald, they say, 
through wold, 
By day and by night, they say, 
She has fled; and the gossips re- 
port g6r 
She has come to King Olaf’s court, 
And the town is all in dismay. 
Hoist up your sails of silk, 
And flee away from each other. 


and 


Itis whispered King Olaf has seen, 
Has talked with the beautiful 
Queen; 
And they wonder how it will 
end; 
For surely, if here she remain, 
It is war with King Svend the 
Dane, 970 
And King Burislaf the Vend ! 
Hoist up your sails of silk, 
And flee away from each other. 


Dh, greatest wonder of all! 
It is published in hamlet and hall, 
It roars like a flame that is 
fanned! 


295 





The King — yes, Olaf the King — 

Has wedded her with his ring, 

- And Thyri is Queen in the land! 
Hoist up your sails of silk, 98 
And flee away from each other, 


XVI 


QUEEN THYRI AND THE AN- 
GELICA STALKS 


Northward over Drontheim, 

Flew the clamorous sea-gulls, 

Sang the lark and linnet 
From the meadows green; 


Weeping in her chamber, 

Lonely and unhappy, 

Sat the Drottning Thyri, 
Sat King Olaf’s Queen. 


In at all the windows 990 
Streamed the pleasant sunshine, 


On the roof above her 


Softiy cooed the dove; 


But the sound she heard nof, 

Nor the sunshine heeded, 

For the thoughts of Thyri 
Were not thoughts of love. 


Then King Olaf entered, 

Beautiful as morning, 

Like the sun at Easter 
Shone his happy face; 


ic090 


In his hand he carried 

Angelicas uprooted, 

With delicious fragrance 
Filling all the place. 


Like a rainy midnight 
Sat the Drottning Thyri, 
Even the smile of Olaf 

Could not cheer her gloom; 


Nor the stalks he gave her 

With a gracious gesture, 

And with words as pleasant 
As their own perfume. 


1010 


296 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





Tn her hands he placed them, 
And her jewelled fingers 
Through the green leaves glis- 
tened 
Like the dews of morn; 


But she cast them from her, 

Haughty and indignant, 

On the floor she threw them 
With a look of scorn. 


1020 


‘Richer presents,’ said she, 

‘Gave King Harald Gormson 

To the Queen, my mother, 
Than such worthless weeds; 


“When he ravaged Norway, 

Laying waste the kingdom, 

Seizing scatt and treasure 
For her royal needs. 


‘But thou darest not venture 1030 
Through the Sound to Vendland, 
My domains to rescue 

From King Burislaf; 


‘Lest King Svend of Denmark, 
Forked Beard, my brother, 
Scatter all thy vessels 

As the wind the chaff? 


Then up sprang King Olaf, 

Like a reindeer bounding, 

With an oath he answered 
Thus the luckless Queen: 


1040 


‘Never yet did Olaf 

Fear King Svend of Denmark; 

This right hand shall hale him 
By his forked chin !? 


Then he left the chamber, 
Thundering through the door- 
way, 
Loud his steps resounded 
Down the outer stair. 


Smarting with the insult, 1050 
Through the streets of Drontheim 
Strode he red and wrathful, 

With his stately air. 


All his ships he gathered, 
Summoned all his forces, 
Making his war levy 

Tn the region round. 


Down the coast of Norway, 

Like a flock of sea-gulls, 

Sailed the fleet of Olaf 
Through the Danish Sound. 


1060 


With his own hand fearless 

Steered he the Long Serpent, 

Strained the creaking cordage, 
Bent each boom and gaff; 


Till in Vendland landing, 

The domains of Thyri 

He redeemed and rescued 
From King Burislaf. 


Then said Olaf, laughing, 

‘Not ten yoke of oxen 

Have the power to draw us 
Like a woman’s hair! 


1070 


‘ Now will I confess it, 

Better things are jewels 

Than angelica stalks are 
For a queen to wear.’ 


XVII 


KING SVEND OF THE FORKED 
BEARD 


Loudly the sailors cheered 
Svend of the Forked Beard, 
As with his fleet he steered 
Southward to Vendland ; 
Where with their courses hauled 
All were together called, 
Under the Isle of Svald 
Near to the mainland. 


1089 


After Queen Gunhild’s death, 
So the old Saga saith, 
Plighted King Svend his faith 
To Sigrid the Haughty ; 
And to avenge his bride, 
Soothing her wounded pride, 


1094 





THE MUSICIAN’S TALE 297 
Over the waters wide Plotted the three kings; 
King Olaf sought he. While, with a base intent, 
Southward Earl Sigvald went, 
Still on her scornful face, On a foul errand bent, 1140 


Blushing with deep disgrace, 

Bore she the crimson trace 
Of Olaf’s gauntlet ; 

Like a malignant star, 

Blazing in heaven afar, 

Red shone the angry scar 
Under her frontlet. 


Ir0o 


Oft to King Svend she spake, 

‘For thine own honor’s sake 

Shalt thou swift vengeance take 
On the vile coward!’ 

Until the King at last, 

Gusty and overcast, 

Like a tempestuous blast 
Threatened and lowered. 


Soon as the Spring appeared, r110 

Svend of the Forked Beard 

High his red standard reared, 
Eager for battle; 

While every warlike Dane, 

Seizing his arms again, 

Left all unsown the grain, 
Unhoused the cattle. 


Likewise the Swedish King 

Summoned in haste a Thing, 

Weapons and men to bring 
In aid of Denmark ; 

Eric the Norseman, too, 

As the war-tidings flew, 

Sailed with a chosen crew 
From Lapland and Finmark. 


Ir20 


So upon Easter day 
Sailed the three kings away, 
Out of the sheltered bay, 
In the bright season; 
With them Earl Sigvald came, 1130 
Eager for spoil and fame; 
Pity that such a name 
Stooped to such treason! 


Safe under Svald at last, 
Now were their anchors cast, 
Safe from the sea and blast, 


_Unto the Sea-kings. 


Thence to hold on his course 

Unto King Olaf’s force, 

Lying within the hoarse 
Mouths of Stet-haven ; 

Him to ensnare and bring 

Unto the Danish king, 

Who his dead corse would fling 
Forth to the raven! 


XVIII 


KING OLAF AND EARL SIGVALD 


On the gray sea-sands 
King Olaf stands, 
Northward and seaward 
He points with his hands. 


L150 


With eddy and whirl 
The sea-tides curl, 
Washing the sandals 
Of Sigvald the Earl. 


The mariners shout, 

The ships swing about, 
The yards are all hoisted, 
The sails flutter out. 


1160 


The war-horns are played, 
The anchors are weighed, 

Like moths in the distance 
The sails flit and fade. 


The sea is like lead, 

The harbor lies dead, 

AS a corse on the sea-shore, 
Whose spirit has fled! 


On that fatal day, 
The histories say, 
Seventy vessels 
Sailed out of the bay. 


1170 


But soon seattered wide 
O’er the billows they ride, 


298 





es 


While Sigvald and Olaf 
Sail side by side. 


Cried the Ear!: *‘ Follow me! 

I your pilot will be, 13179 
For I know ali the channels 
Where flows the deep sea !? 


So into the strait 

Where his foes lie in wait, 
Galant King Olaf 

Sails to his fate! 


Then the sea-fog veils 
The ships and their sails; 
Queen Sigrid the Haughty, 
Thy vengeance prevails ! 
XIX 
KING OLAF’S WAR-HORNS 


‘Strike the sails!? King Olaf 


said : 1190 
“Never sbhali men of mine take 
flight ; 


Never away from battle I fled, 

Never away from my foes! 
Let God dispose 

Of my life in the fight !” 


‘Sound the horns !’ said Olaf the 
King; 


And suddenly through the drifting | 


brume 
The blare of the horns began to 
ring, 
Like the terrible trumpet shock 
Of Regnarock, 
On the Day of Doom! 


1200 


Louder and louder the war-horns 
sang 

Over the level floor of the flood; 

All the sails came down with a 
clang, 

And there in the midst overhead 

The sun hung red 
As a drop of blood. 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


ee 


Drifting down on the Danish fleet 
Three together the ships were 
lashed, 
So that neither should turn and 
retreat ; 121a 
In the midst, but in front of the 
-rest, 
The burnished crest 
Of the Serpent flashed. 


King Olaf stood on the quarter 
deck, 

With bow of ash and arrows of 
oak, 

His giided shield was without a 
fleck, 

His helmet inlaid with gold, 

And in many a fold 
Hung his crimson cloak. 


On the foreeastie Ulf the Red 1220 
Watched the lashing of the ships; 
“Tf the Serpent lie so far ahead, 
We shall have hard work of it 
here,’ 
Said he with a sneer 
On his bearded lips. 


King Olaf laid an arrow on string, 
‘Have I a coward on board?’ said 
he. 
‘Shoot it another way, O King!? 
Sullenly answered Ulf, 
The old sea-wolf; 
*You have need of me!’ 


1230 


In front came Svend, the King of 
the Danes, 

Sweeping down. with his fifty row- 
ers; 

To the right, the Swedish king 
with his thanes; 

And on board of the Iron Beard 

Earl Eric steered 
To the left with his oars. 


‘These soft Danes and Swedes, 
said the King, 


| ‘At home with their wives had 


better stay, 





THE MUSICIAN'S) TALE 





Than come within reach of my 
Serpent’s sting: 1240 
But where Eric the Norseman 
leads 
Heroic deeds 
Will be done to-day!’ 
Then as together the vessels 
crashed, 
Eric severed the cables of hide, 
With which King Olaf’s ships 
were lashed, 
And left them to drive and drift 
With the currents swift 
Of the outward tide. 


Louder the war-horns growl and 
snarl, 1250 

Sharper the dragons bite and 
sting! 

Eric the son of Hakon Jarl 

A death-drink salt as the sea 

Pledges to thee, 
Olaf the King! 


xx 
EINAR TAMBERSKELVER 


It was Einar Tamberskelver 
Stood beside the mast; 
From his yew-bow, tipped with 
silver, 
Flew the arrows fast ; 
Aimed at Eric unavailing, 
As he sat concealed, 
Half behind the quarter-railing, 
Half behind his shield. 


1260 


First an arrow struck the tiller, 
Just above his head; 

*Sing, O Eyvind Skaldaspiller,’ 
Then Ear! Eric said. 

‘Sing the song of Hakon dying, 
Sing his funeral wail!’ 
And another arrow flying 

Grazed his coat of mail. 


1270 


Turning to a Lapland yeoman, 
As the arrow passed, 


299 
Said Earl Eric, ‘Shoct that bow. 
man 
Standing by the mast.’ 
Sooner than the word was spoken 
Flew the yeomawn’s shaft; 
Einar’s bow in twain was broken, 
Einar only laughed. 


‘What was that?’ said Olaf, stand- 


ing 1280 
On the quarter-deck. 
‘Something heard I like the 
stranding 
Of a shattered wreck.? 
Einar then, the arrow taking 
From the loosened string, 
Answered, ‘That was Norway 


breaking 
From thy hand, O King!’ 


‘Thou art but a poor diviner,’ 
Straightway Olaf said ; 

‘Take my bow, and swifter, Ei- 

nar, 1290 

Let thy shafts be sped.’ 

Of his bows the fairest choosing, 
Reached he from above; 

Einar saw the blood-drops oozing 
Through his iron glove. 


But the bow was thin and nar- 
row; 
At the first assay, 
O’er its head he drew the arrow, 
Flung the bow away; 
Said, with hot and angry tem- 
per 1300 
Flushing in his cheek, 
‘Olaf! for so great a Kamper 
Are thy bows too weak!’ 


Then, with smile of joy defiant 
' On his beardless lip, 
Scaled he, light and self-reliant, 
Eric’s dragon-ship. 
Loose his golden locks were flow- 
Ing, 
Bright his armor gleamed ; 
Like Saint Michael overthrow- 
ing 1310 
Lucifer he seemed, 


300 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





XXI 
KING OLAF’S DEATH-DRINK 


All day has the battle raged, 
All day have the ships engaged, 
But not yet is assuaged 

The vengeance of Eric the Earl. 


The decks with blood are red, 
The arrows of death are sped, 
The ships are filled with the dead, 
And the spears the champions 
hurl. 


They drift as wrecks on the tide, 

The grappling-irons are plied, 1321 

The boarders climb up the side, 
The shouts are feeble and few. 


Ah! never shall Norway again 
See her sailors come back o’er the 
main ; 
They all lie wounded or slain, 
Or asleep in the billows blue! 


On the deck stands Olaf the King, 
Around him whistle and sing 
The spears that the foemen 
fling, 1330 
And the stones they hurl with 
their hands. 


In the midst of the stones and the 
spears, 
Kolbiorn, the marshal, appears, 
His shield in the air he uprears, 
By the side of King Olaf he 
stands. 


Over the slippery wreck 

Of the Long Serpent’s deck 

Sweeps Eric with hardly a check, 
His lips with anger are pale; 


He hews with his axe at the 
mast, 1340 
Till it falls, with the sails overcast, 
Like a snow-covered pine in the 
vast 
Dim forests of Orkadale. 


Seeking King Olaf then, 
He rushes aft with his men, 
As a huuter into the den 
Of the bear, when he stands at 
bay. 


‘Remember Jarl Hakon!’ he cries; 

When Io! on his wondering eyes, 

Two kingly figures arise, 1350 
Two Olafs in warlike array! 


Then Kolbiorn speaks in the ear 
Of King Olaf a word of cheer, 
In a whisper that none may hear, 
With a smile on his tremulous 
lip; 


Two shields raised high in the air, 
Two flashes of golden hair, 
Two scarlet meteors’ glare, 
And both have leaped from the 
ship. 


Earl Eric’s men in the boats 136¢ 

Seize Kolbiorn’s shield as it floats, 

And ery, from their hairy throats, 
‘See! it is Olaf the King!’ 


While far on the opposite side 

Floats another shield on the tide, 

Like a jewel set in the wide 
Sea-current’s eddying ring. 


There is told a wonderful tale, 
How the King stripped off his 


mail, 
Like leaves of the brown sea 
kale, 1374 


As he swam beneath the main; 


But the young grew old and gray, 

And never, by night or by day, 

In his kingdom of Norroway 
Was King Olaf seen again! 


XXII 


THE NUN OF NIDAROS 


In the convent of Drontheim, 
Alone in her chamber, 


RCL me: 


INTERLUDE 





Knelt Astrid the Abbess 
At midnight, adoring, 
Beseeching, entreating 
The Virgin and Mother. 


1380 


She heard in the silence 
The voice of one speaking, 
Without in the darkness, 
Tn gusts of the night-wind, 
Now louder, now nearer, 
Now lost in the distance. 


The voice of a stranger 

It seemed as she listened, 

Of some one who answered 1390 
Beseeching, imploring, 

A ery from afar off 

She could not distinguish. 


The voice of Saint John, 
The beloved disciple, 

Who wandered and waited 
The Master’s appearance, 
Alone in the darkness, 
Unsheltered and friendless. 


‘It is accepted, 

The angry defiance, 

The challenge of battle! 

It is accepted, 

But not with the weapons 
Of war that thou wieldest! 


1400 


‘Cross against corselet, 

Love against hatred, 

Peace-cry for war-cry ! 

Patience is powerful; 

He that o’ercometh 1410 
Hath power o’er the nations! 


* As torrents in summer, 
Half dried in their channels, 
Suddenly rise, though the 
Sky is still cloudless, 

For rain has been falling 
Far off at their fountains ; 


‘So hearts that are fainting 
Grow full to o’erflowing, 
And they that beheld it 
Marvel, and know not 


1420 


301 





That God at their fountains 
Far off has been raining! 


‘Stronger than steel 

Is the sword of the Spirit; 
Swifter than arrows 

The light of the truth is, 
Greater than anger 

Is love, and subdueth! 


‘Thou art a phantom, 
A shape of the sea-mist, 
A shape of the brumal 
Rain, and the darkness 
Fearful and formless; 
Day dawns and thou art not! 


1430 


‘The dawn is not distant, 
Nor is the night starless ; 
Love is eternal! 

God is still God, and 

His faith shall not fail us; 
Christ is eternal!’ 


1440 


INTERLUDE 


A STRAIN of music closed the tale, 

A low, monotonous, funeral wail, 

That with its cadence, wild and 
sweet, 

Made the long Saga more com- 
plete. 


‘Thank God, the Theologian said, 
‘The reign of violence is dead, 

Or dying surely from the world; 
While Love triumphant reigns in- 

stead, 

And in a brighter sky o’erhead 
His blessed banners are unfurled. 
And most of all thank God for 


this: 

The war and waste of clashing 
creeds 

Now end in words, and not in 
deeds, 


And no one suffers loss, or bleeds, 
For thoughts that men call here 
sies. 


302 





‘IT stand without here in the porch, 

I hear the bell’s melodious din, 

I hear the organ peal within, 

I hear the prayer, with words that 
scorch 

Like sparks from an 
torch, 

T hear the sermon upon sin, 

With threatenings of the last ac- 
count. 

And all, translated in the air, 

Reach me but as our dear Lord’s 
Prayer, 

And as the Sermon on the Mount. 


inverted 


‘Must it be Calvin, and not Christ? 

Must it be Athanasian creeds, 

Or holy water, books, and beads? 

Must struggling souls remain con- 
tent 

With councils and decrees’ of 
Trent? 

And ean it be enough for these 

The Christian Church the year em- 
balms 

With evergreens and boughs of 
palms, 

And fills the air with litanies ? 


‘I know that yonder Pharisee 
Thanks God that he is not like me; 
In my humiliation dressed, 

I only stand and beat my breast, 
And pray for human charity. 


‘Not to one church alone, but 
seven, 

The voice prophetic spake from 
heaven; 

And unto each the promise came, 

Diversified, but still the same; 

For him that overcometh are 

The new name written on the 
stone, 

The raiment white, the crown, the 
throne, 

And I will give him the Morning 
Star! 


Ah! to how many Faith has been 
No evidence of things unseen, 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


——— 7 


But a dim shadow, that recasts 
The creed of the Phantasiasts, 
For whom no Man of Sorrows died, 
For whom the Tragedy Divine 
Was but a symbol and a sign, 
And Christ a phantom crucified! 


‘For others a diviner creed 

Is living in the life they lead. 

The passing of their beautiful feet 

Blesses the pavement of the street, 

And all their looks and words re- 
peat 

Old Fuller’s saying, wise and 
sweet, 

Not as a vulture, but a dove, 

The Holy Ghost came from above. 


‘And this brings back to me a 
tale 

So sad the hearer well may quail, 

And question if such things can 
be; 

Yet in the chronicles of Spain 

Down the dark pages runs this 
stain, 

And naught can wash them white 
again, 

So fearful is the tragedy.’ 


THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE 
TORQUEMADA 


IN the heroic days when Ferdi. 
nand 

And Isabella ruled the Spanish 
land, 

And Torquemada, with his subtle 
brain, 

Ruled them as Grand Inquisitor 
of Spain, 

In a great castle near Valladolid, 

Moated and high and by fair wood. 
lands hid, 

There dwelt, as from the chroni 
cles we learn, 

An old Hidalgo proud and tach 
turn, 


THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE 


393 





Whose name has perished, with 
his towers of stone, 


And all his actions save this one | 


alone ; 
This one, so terrible, 
% were best 


If it, too, were forgotten with the | 


rest; 
Unless, perchance, our eyes can 
see therein 


The martyrdom triumphant over | 


the sin; 


A double picture, with its gicom | 


and glow, 


The splendor overhead, the death | 


below. 


day as lost 


old cressed; 


And when he chanced the passing | 
| As moculight in a solitary street, 


Host to meet, 


He knelt and prayed devoutly in | 


the street ; 20 


Oft he confessed; and with each } 


mutinous thought, 
As with wild beasts af Ephesus, 
he fought 


In deep contrition scourged him- | 


self in Lent, 
Walked in processions, with his 
head down bent, 


Af plays of Corpus Christi off was | 


Seen, 


And on Palm Sunday bore his | 


bough of green. 


His sole diversion was to hunt the | 


boar 


Through tangled thickets of the | 


forest lioar, 


Or with his jingling mules to hurry | 


dowh 


To some grand bull-fight ia a 


neighboring town, 

Or in the crowd with lighted ianet 
stand, 

When Jews were burned, or ban 
ished from the land. 

Then stirred withiu hima tumultu- 
ous joy; 


i9 
perhaps 


The demon whose delight is to 
destroy 

Shook him, and shouted with a 
{trumpet tome, — 

“HULL! kill! and let the Lord find 
out his own!? 


And now, in that old castle in the 
wood, 

His daughters, in the dawn of 
womanhood, 

Returning from their convent 
school, had made 

Resplendent with theic bloom the 
forest shade, 4 


| Reminding him of their dead mo- 
This sombre man counted each | 
| When first she came into that 
On which his feet no sacred thresh- | 
; A memory iu his heart as dim and 


thers face, 
gloomy place, — 
sweet 


Where the same rays, that lift the 
sea, are throw 

Levely but powerless upon walls 
af stone. 

These two fair daughters of a 
mother dead 

Were all the dream had left him as - 
if fled. 

A joy at fiest, and then a growiug 
care, 

As if a voice within him cried, ‘ Be- 
ware !? 50 

A vague presentiment of iImpend- 
ing doom, 

Like ghostly footsteps in a vacant 
room, 

Haunted him day aud night; a 
formless fear 

That death to some one of his 
house was near, 

With dark surmises of a hidden, 
erime, 

Made life itself a death before its 
time. 

Jealous, suspicious, with no sense 
of shame, 

A spy upon his daughters he be- 
Came ; 


304 





With velvet slippers, noiseless on 


the floors, 
He glided softly through half-open 
doors ; 60 


Now in the room, and now upon 
the stair, 

He stood beside them ere they 
were aware ; 

He listened in the passage when 
they talked, 

He watched them from the case- 
ment when they walked, 

He saw the gypsy haunt the river’s 
side, 

He saw the monk among the cork- 
trees glide: 

And, tortured by the mystery and 


the doubt 

Of some dark secret, past his find- 
ing out, 

Baffled he paused; then reassured 
again 

Pursued the flying phantom of his 
brain. 70 


He watched them even when they 
knelt in church; 

And then, descending lower in his 
search, 

Questioned the servants, and with 
eager eyes 

Listened incredulous to their re- 
plies ; 

The gypsy? none had seen her in 
the wood! 

The monk? a mendicant in search 
of food! 


At length the awful revelation 
came, 

Crushing at once his pride of birth 
and name; 

The hopes his yearning bosom for- 
ward cast 

And the ancestral glories of the 
past, 80 

All fell together, crumbling in dis- 
grace, 

A turret rent from battlement to 
base. 

His daughters talking in the dead 
of night 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


———— as 


In their own chamber, and with. 
out a light, 

Listening, as he was wont, he 
overheard, 

And learned the dreadful secret, 
word by word; 

And hurrying from his castle, with 
a cry 

He raised his hands to the unpity- 
ing sky, 

Repeating one dread word, tili 
bush and tree 

Caught it, and shuddering an- 
swered, ‘ Heresy!’ go 


Wrapped in his cloak, his hat 
drawn o’er his face, 

Now hurrying forward, now with 
lingering pace, 

He walked all night the alleys of 
his park, 

With one unseen companion in the 
dark, 

The demon who within him lay in 
wait 

And by his presence turned his 
love to hate, 

Forever muttering in an under- 
tone, 

‘Kill! kill! and let the Lord find 
out his own !? 


Upon the morrow, after early Mass, 

While yet the dew was glistening 
on the grass, 100 

And all the woods were musical 
with birds, 

The old Hidalgo, uttering fearful 
words, 

Walked homeward with the Priest, 
and in his room 

Summoned his trembling daugh- 
ters to their doom. 

When questioned, with brief an. 
swers they replied, 

Nor when accused evaded or de. 
nied; 
Expostulations, 
peals, 

All that the human heart most 

fears or feels, 


passionate ap- 


THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE 


305 





In vain the Priest with earnest 
voice essayed ; 
In vain the father threatened, 


wept, and prayed, 110 
Until at last he said, with haughty 
mien, 
‘The Holy Office, then, must inter- 
vene!? 


And now the Grand Inquisitor of 


Spain, 

With all the fifty horsemen of his 
train, 

His awful name resounding, like 
the blast 

Of funeral trumpets, as he onward 
passed, 

Came to Valladolid, and there be- 
gan 

To harry the rich Jews with fire 
and ban. 

To him the Hidalgo went, and at 
the gate 

Demanded audience on affairs of 
state, 120 

And in a secret chamber stood be- 
fore 

A venerable graybeard of four- 
score, 

Dressed in the hood and habit of 
a friar; 

Out of his eyes flashed a consum- 
ing fire, 

And in his hand the mystic horn 
he held, 


Which poison and all noxious 
charms dispelled. 

He heard in silence the Hidalgo’s 
tale, 

Then answered in a voice that 
made him quail: 

*Son of the Church! when Abra- 
ham of old 

To sacrifice his only son was 
told, 130 

He did not pause to parley nor 
protest, 

But hastened to obey the Lord’s 
behest. 

In him it was accounted righteous- 
ness; 


The Holy Church expects of thee 
no less!’ 


A sacred frenzy seized the father’s 
brain, 

And Mercy from that hour im- 

plored in vain. 

who will e’er believe the 

words I say? 

His daughters he accused, and 
the same day 

They both were cast 
dungeon’s gloom, 

That dismal antechamber of the 
tomb, 140 

Arraigned, condemned, and sen- 
tenced to the flame, 

The secret torture and the public 
shame. 


Ah! 


into the 


Then to the Grand Inquisitor once 
more 

The Hidalgo went, more eager than 
before, 

And said: ‘When Abraham of- 
fered up his son, 

He clave the wood wherewith it 
might be done. 

By his example taught, let me too 
bring 

Wood from the forest for my offer- 
ing!’ 

And the deep voice, without a 
pause, replied: 

‘Son of the Church! by faith now 
justified, 150 

Complete thy sacrifice, even as 
thou wilt ; 

The Church absolves thy con- 
science from all guilt!’ 


Then this most wretched father 
went his way 

Into the woods, that round his 
castle lay, 

Where once his daughters in tneir 
childhood played 

With their young mother in the 
sun and shade. 

Now all the leaves had fallen; the 
branches bare 


306 





Made a perpetual moaning in the 
air 

And screaming from their eyries 
overhead 

The ravens sailed athwart the sky 
of lead. 160 

With his own hands he lopped the 
boughs and bound 

Fagots, that crackled with fore- 
boding sound, 

And on his mules, caparisoned and 
gay 

With bells and tassels, sent them 
on their way. 


Then with his mind on one dark 
purpose bent, 

Again to the Inquisitor he went, 

And said: ‘Behold, the fagots I 
have brought, 

And now, lest my atonement be as 
naught, 

Grant me one more request, one 
last desire, — 

With my own hand to light the 
funeral fire !? 170 

And Torquemada answered from 
his seat, 

*Son of the Church! 
ing is complete; 

Her servants through 
shall not cease 

To magnify thy deed. Depart in 
peace!” 


Thine offer- 


all ages 


Upon the market-place, builded of 
stone 

The seaffold rose, whereon Death 
claimed his own. 

At the four corners, in stern atti- 
tude, 

Four statues of the Hebrew Pro- 
phets stood, 

Gazing with calm indifference in 
their eyes 

Upon this place of human sacri- 
fice, 180 

Round which was gathering fast 
the eager crowd, 

With clamor of voices dissonant 
and loud, 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





And every roof and window was 
alive 

With restless gazers, swarming 
like a hive. 


The church-bells tolled, the chant 
of monks drew near, 

Loud trumpets stammered forth 
their notes of fear, 

A line of torches smoked along 
the street, 

There was a stir, a rush, a tramp 
of feet, 

And, with its banners floating in 
the air, 

Slowly the long procession crossed 
the square, 190 

And, to the statues of the Pro- 
phets bound, 

The victims stood, with fagots 
piled around. 

Then all the air a blast of trum- 
pets shook, 

And louder sang the monks with 
bell and book, 

And the Hidalgo, lefty, stern, and 
proud, 

Lifted his torch, and, bursting 
through the crowd, 

Lighted in haste the fagots, and 
then fled, 

Lest those imploring eyes should 

' strike him dead! 


O pitiless skies! why did your 
clouds retaiu 

For peasants’ fields their floods of 
hoarded rain ? 200 

O pitiless earth! why opened no 
abyss 

To bury in its chasm a crime like 
this ? 


That night, a mingled column of 
fire and smoke 

From the dark thickets of the for- 
est broke, 

And, glaring o’er the landscape 
leagues away, 

Made all the fields and hamlets 
bright as day. 


SHE, PORTS TALE 


307 





Wrapped in a sheet of flame the | His head was sunk upon _ his 


castle blazed, 

And as the villagers in terror 
gazed, 

They saw the figure of that cruel 
knight 

Lean from a window in the turret’s 
height, 210 

His ghastly face illumined with 
the glare, 

His hands upraised above his head 
in prayer, 

Till the floor sank beneath him, 
and he fell 

Down the black hollow of that 
burning well. 


Three centuries and more above 
his bones 

Have piled the oblivious years like 
funeral stones ; 

His name has perished with him, 
and no trace 

Remains on earth of his afflicted 
race; 

But Torquemada’s 
clouds o’ercast, 

Looms in the distant landscape of 
the Past, 220 

Like a burnt tower upon a black- 
ened heath, 

Lit by the fires of burning woods 
beneath! 


name, with 


INTERLUDE 


THUS closed the tale of guilt and 
gloom, 

That cast upon each listener’s 
face 

Its shadow, and for some brief 
space 

Unbroken silence filled the room, 

The Jew was thoughtful and dis- 
tressed ; 

Upon his memory thronged and 
pressed 

The persecution of his race, 

Their wrongs and sufferings and 
disgrace ; 


breast, 
And from his eyes alternate came 
Flashes of wrath and tears of 
shame. 


The Student first the silence 
broke, 

As one who long has lain in wait, 

With purpose to retaliate, 

And thus he dealt the avenging 
stroke. 

‘In such a company as this, 

A tale so tragic seems amiss, 

That by its terrible control 

O’ermasters and drags down the 
soul 

Into a fathomless abyss. 

The Italian Tales that you dis- 
dain, 

Some merry Night of Straparole, 

Or Machiavelli’s Belphagor, 

Would cheer us and delight us 


more, 

Give greater pleasure and less 
pain 

Than your grim tragedies of 
Spain!’ 


And here the Poet raised his 
hand, 

With such entreaty and command, 
It stopped discussion at its birth, 
And said: ‘ The story I shall tell 
Has meaning in it, if not mirth; 
Listen, and hear what once befell 
The merry birds of Killingworth}? 


THE POET'S TALE 


THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH 


IT was the season, when through 


all the land 
The merle and mavis build, and 
building sing 
Those lovely lyries, written by His 
hand, 
Whom Saxon Czedmon ealls the 
Blithe-heart King; 


308 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





When on the boughs the purpie |} That mingled with the universal 


buds expand, 
The banners of the vanguard of 
the Spring, 
And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and 
leap, 
And wave their fluttering signals 
from the steep. 


The robin and the bluebird, piping 
loud, 
Filled all the blossoming or- 
chards with their glee; 10 
The sparrows chirped as if they 
still were proud 
Their race in Holy Writ should 
mentioned be; 
And hungry crows, assembled in a 
crowd, 
Clamored their piteous prayer 
incessantly, 
Knowing who hears the ravens 
cry, and said: 
‘Give us, O Lord, this day, our 
daily bread!’ 


Across the Sound the birds of pas- 
sage sailed, 
Speaking some unknown lan- 
guage strange and sweet 
Of tropic isle remote, and passing 
hailed 
The village with the cheers of 
all their fleet ; 20 
Or quarrelling together, laughed 
and railed 
Like foreign sailors, landed in 
the street 
Of seaport town, and with out- 
landish noise 
Of oaths and gibberish frightening 
girls and boys. 


Thus came the jocund Spring in 
Killingworth, 
In fabulous days, seme hundred 
years ago; 
And thrifty farmers, as they tiled 
the earth, — 
Heard with alarm the cawing of 
the crow, 


mirth, 
Cassandra-like, prognosticating 
woe; 30 


They shook their heads, and 
doomed with dreadful words 

To swift destruction the whole 
race of birds. 


And a town-meeting was convened 
straightway 
To set a price upon the guilty 
heads 
Of these marauders, who, in lieu of 
pay, 
Levied black-mail upon the gar. 
den beds 
And cornfields, and beheld with- 
out dismay 
The awful scarecrow, with his 
fluttering shreds ; 
The skeleton that waited et their 


feast, 
Whereby their sinful pleasure was 
increased. 40 


Then from his house, a temple 
painted white, 
With fluted columns, and a roof 
of red, 
The Squire came forth, august and 
splendid sight! 
Slowly descending, with majestic 
tread, 
Three flights of steps, nor looking 
left nor right, 
Down the long street he walked, 
as one who said, 
‘A town that boasts inhabitants 
like me 
Can have no lack of good society !* 


The Parson, too, appeared, a man 


austere, 
The instinct of whose nature 
was to kill; 5a 


Tbe wrath of God he preached 
from year to year, 
And read, with fervor, Edwards 
on the Will; 


THE POET'S TALE 


309 





His favorite pastime was to slay 

the deer 
In Summer on some Adirondac 

hill; 

E’en now, while walking down the 
rural lane, 

He lopped the wayside lilies with 
his cane. 


From the Academy, whose belfry 


crowned 
The hill of Science with its vane 
of brass, 
Came the Preceptor, gazing idly 
round, 
Now at the clouds, and now at 
the green grass, 60 
And all absorbed in reveries pro- 
found 


Of fair Almira in the upper class, 
Who was, as in a sonnet he had 
said, 
As pure as water, and as good as 
bread. 


And next the Deacon issued from 
his door, 
In his voluminous neck-cloth, 
white as snow; 
A suit of sable bombazine he 
wore; 
His form was ponderous, and 
his step was slow ; 
There never was so wise @ man 
before ; 
He seemed the incarnate ‘ Well, 
I told you so!’ 70 
And to perpetuate his great re- 
nown 
There was a street named after 
him in town. 


These came together in the new 
town-hall, 
With sundry farmers from the 
region round. 
The Squire presided, dignified and 
tall, 
His air impressive and his rea- 
soning sound; 


Ill fared it with the birds, both 
great and small; 
Hardly a friend in all that crowd 
they found, 
But enemies enough, who every 


one 
Charged them with all the crimes 
beneath the sun. 80 


When they had ended, from his 
place apart 
Rose the Preceptor, to redress 
the wrong, 
And, trembling like a steed before 
the start, 
Looked round bewildered on the 
expectant throng ; 
Then thought of fair Almira, and 
took heart 
To speak out what was in him, 
clear and strong, 
Alike regardless of their smile or 
frown, 
And quite determined not to be 
laughed down. 


‘Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, 
From his Republic banished 
without pity go 
The Poets ; in this little town of 
yours, 
You put to death, by means of a 
Committee, 
The ballad-singers and the Trou- 
badours, 
The street-musicians of the hea- 
venly city, 
The birds, who make sweet music 
for us all 
In our dark hours, as David did 
for Saul. 


‘The thrush that carols at the 
dawn of day 

From the green steeples of the 
piny wood; 

The oriole in the elm; the noisy 


jay, 
Jargoning like a foreigner at his 
food; 100 


310 





The bluebird balanced on some 

topmost spray, 
Flooding with melody the neigh- 

borhood; 

Linnet and meadow-lark, and all 
the throng 

That dwell in nests, and have the 
gift of song. 


‘You slay them all! and where- 
fore? for the gain 
Of a scant handful more or less 
of wheat, 
Or rye, or barley, or some other 
grain, 
Scratched up at random by in- 
dustrious feet, 
Searching for worm or weevil after 
rain ! 
Ora few cherries, that are not 
so sweet 110 
As are the songs these uninvited 
guests 
Sing at their feast with comforta- 
ble breasts. 


‘Do you ne’er think what won- 
drous beings these? 
Do you ne’er think who made 
them, and who taught 
The dialect they speak, where 
melodies 
Alone are the 
thought ? 
Whose household words are songs 
in many keys, 
Sweeter than instrument of man 
e’er caught! 
Whose habitations in the tree-tops 
even 
Are half-way houses on the road 
to heaven! 120 


interpreters of 


“Think, every morning when the 
sun peeps through 
The dim, leaf-latticed windows 
of the grove, 
How jubilant the happy birds re- 
new 
Their old, melodious madrigals 
oi love! 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


—_ 


And when you think of this, re 

member too 
*T is always morning somewhere, 

and above 

The awakening continents, from 
shore to shore, 

Somewhere the birds are singing 
evermore. 


‘ Think of your woods and erchards 
without birds ! 
Of empty nests that cling to 
boughs and beams 130 
As in an idiot’s brain remembered 
words 
Hang empty ’mid the cobwebs 
of his dreams ! 
Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of 
herds 
Make up for the lost music, 
when your teams 
Drag home the stingy harvest, 
and no more 
The feathered gleaners follow to 
your door? 


“What! would you rather see the 
incessant stir 
Of insects in the windrows of 
the hay, 
And hear the locust and the grass- 
hopper 
Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies 
play ? 140 
Is this more pleasant to you than 
the whir 
Of meadow-lark, and her sweet 
roundelay, 
Or twitter of little field-fares, as 
you take 
Your nooning in the shade of bush 
and brake? 


‘You call them thieves and pilla- 
gers: but know, 
They are the wingéd wardens of 
your farms, 
Who from the cornfields drive the 
insidious foe, 
And from your harvests keepa2 
hundred harms ; 


HEY POETS TALE 


Even the blackest of them all, the 
crow, 

Renders good service as your 

mah-at-arms, 150 

Crushing the beetle in his coat of 
mail, 

And crying havoc on the slug and 
snail 


‘How ean I teach your children 
gentleness, 
And mercy to the weak, and rev- 
erence 
For Life, which, in its weakness 
or excess, 
Is still a gleam of God’s omnipo- 
tence, 
Or Death. which, seeming dark- 
ness, is no less 
The selfsame light, although 
averted hence, 
When by your laws, your actions, 
and your speech, 
You contradict the very things I 
teach ?? 160 
With this he closed; and through 
the audience went 
A murmur, like the rustle of 
dead leaves ; 
The farmers laughed and nodded, 
and some bent 
Their yellow heads together like 
their sheaves ; 
Men have no faith in fine-spun 
sentiment 
Who put their trust in bullocks 
and in beeves. 
The birds were doomed; and, as 
the record shows, 
A bounty offered for the heads of 
\ crows. 


There was another audience out 
of reach, 
Who had no voice nor vote in 
making laws, 170 
But in the papers read his little 
speech, 
And crowned bis modest temples 
with applause ; 


B11 


They made him conscious, each 
one more than each, 
He still was victor, vanquished 
in their cause. 
Sweetest of all the applause he 
won from thee, 
O fair Almira at the Academy ! 


And so the dreadful massacre be- 
gan; 
Over fiel@s and orchards, and 
o’er woodland crests, 
The ceaseless fusillade of terror 
ran. 
Dead fell the birds, with blood. 
stains on their breasts, 180 
Or wounded crept away from sight 
of man, 
While the young died of famine 
in their nests; 
A slaughter to be told in groans, 
not words, 
The very St. 
Birds! 


Bartholomew of 


The Summer came, and all the 
birds were dead; 
The days were like hot coals; 
the very ground 
Was burned to ashes; in the or- 
chards fed 


Myriads of caterpillars, and 
around 
The cultivated fields and garden 
beds 
Hosts of devouring insects 
crawled, and found 190 


No foe to check their march, till 
they had made 

The land a desert without leaf or 
shade. 


Devoured by worms, like Herod, 
was the town, 
Beeause, like Herod, it had ruth- 
lessly 
Slaughtered the Innocents. 
the trees spun down 
The canker- worms upon the 
passers-by, 


From 


312 





Upon each woman’s bonnet, shawl, 
and gown, 
Who shook them off with just a 
little cry; 
They were the terror of each fa- 
vorite walk, 
The endless theme of all the vil- 


lage talk. 200 
The farmers grew impatient, but 
a few 
Confessed their error, and would 
not complain, 
For after all, the best thing one 
can do 
When it is raining, is to let it 
rain. 
Then they repealed the law, al- 
though they knew 
It would not call the dead to life 
again; 
As school-boys, finding their mis- 
take too late, 
Draw a wet sponge across the ac- 
cusing slate. 


That year in Killingworth the Au- 
tumn came 
Without the light of his majestic 
look, 210 
The wonder of the falling tongues 
of flame, 
The illumined pages of his 
Doom’s-Day book. 
A few lost leaves blushed crimson 
with their shame, 
And drowned themselves de- 
spairing in the brook, 
While the wild wind went moan- 
ing everywhere, 
Lamenting the dead children of 
the air! 


But the next Spring a stranger 
sight was seen, 
A sight that never yet by bard 
was sung, 
As great a wonder as it would 
have been 
If some dumb animal had found 
a tongue! 220 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


Se Oe 


A wagon, overarched with ever. 

green, 
Upon whose boughs were wicker 

cages hung, 

All full of singing birds, came 
down the street, 

Filling the air with music wild and 
sweet. 


From all the country round these 
birds were brought, 
By order of the town, with anx- 
ious quest, 
And, loosened from their wicker 
prisons, sought 
In woods and fields the places 
they loved best, 
Singing loud canticles, which many 


thought 
Were satires to the authorities 
addressed, 230 


While others, listening in green 
lanes, averred 

Such lovely music never had been 
heard! 


But blither still and louder car. 
olled they 
Upon the morrow, 
seemed to know 
It was the fair Almira’s wedding- 
day, 
And everywhere, around, above, 
below, 
When the Preceptor bore his bride 
away, 
Their songs burst forth in joyous 
overflow, 
And a new heaven bent over a 
new earth 
Amid the sunny farms of Killing. 
worth. 246 


for they 


FINALE 


THE hour was late; the fire burned 
low, 

The Landlord’s eyes were closed 
in sleep, 

And near the story’s end a deep, 


PRELUDE 


Bonorous sound at times was 
heard, 

As when the distant bagpipes blow. 

At this all laughed; the Landlord 
stirred, 

As one awaking from a swound, 

And, gazing anxiously around, 

Protested that he had not slept, 

But only shut his eyes, and kept 

His ears attentive to each word. 


Then all arose, and said ‘Good 
Night.’ 

Alone remained the drowsy Squire 

To rake the embers of the fire, 

And quench the waning parlor 
light ; 

While from the windows, here and 
there, 

The scattered lamps a moment 
gleamed, 

And the illumined hostel seemed 

The constellation of the Bear, 

Downward, athwart the misty air, 

Sinking and setting toward the 
sun. 

Far off the village clock struck 
one. 


PART SECOND 
PRELUDE 


A COLD, uninterrupted rain, 

That washed each southern win- 
dow-pane, 

And made a river of the road; 

A sea of mist that overflowed 

The house, the barns, the gilded 
vane, 

And drowned the upland and the 
plain, 

Through which the oak - trees, 
broad and high, 

Like phantom ships went drifting 
by; 

And, hidden behind a watery 
screen, 

The sun unseen, or only seen to 

As a faint pallor in the sky ;— 


345) 


Thus cold and colorless and gray, 

The morn of that autumnal day, 

As if reluctant to begin, 

Dawned on the silent Sudbury 
Inn, 

And all the guests that in it lay. 


Full late they slept. They did not 
hear 

The challenge of Sir Chanticleer, 

Who on the empty threshing-floor, 

Disdainful of the rain outside, 20 

Was strutting with a martial 
stride, 

As if upon his thigh he wore 

The famous broadsword of the 
Squire, 

And said, ‘Behold me, and ad. 
mire!? 


Only the Poet seemed to hear, 

In drowse or dream, more near 
and near 

Across the border-land of sleep, 

The blowing of a blithesome horn, 

That laughed the dismal day to 


scorn; : 
A splash of hoofs and rush of 
wheels 30 


Threugh sand and mire like strand- 
ing keels, 

As from the road with sudden 
sweep 

The Mail drove up the little steep, 

And stopped beside the tavern 
door; 

A moment stopped, and then again 

With crack of whip and bark of 
dog ; 

Plunged forward through the sea 
of fog, 

And all was silent as before, — 

All silent save the dripping rain. 


Then one by one the guests came 


down, 40 
And greeted with a smile the 
Squire, 


Who sat before the parlor fire, 
Reading the paper fresh from 
town. 


314 


First the Sicilian, like a bird, 
Before his form appeared, was 
heard 
Whistling and singing down the 
stair; 
Then came the Student, with a 
‘look 
As placid as a meadow-brook ; 
The Theologian, still perplexed 
With thoughts of this world and 
the next; 50 
The Poet then, as one who seems 
Walking in visions and in dreams; 
Then the Musician, like a fair 
Hyperion from whose golden hair 
The radiance of the morning 
streams; 
And last the aromatic Jew 
Of Alicant, who, as he threw 
The door wide open, on the air 
Breathed round about him a per- 
fume 
Of damask roses in full bloom, 60 
Making a garden of the room. 


The breakfast ended, each pur- 
sued 

The promptings of his various 
mood; 

Beside the fire in silence smoked 

The taciturn, impassive Jew, 

Lost in a pleasant revery ; 

While, by his gravity provoked, 

His portrait the Sicilian drew, 

And wrote beneath it ‘ Edrehi, 

At the Red Horse in Sudbury.’ 70 


By far the busiest of them all, 

‘The Theologian in the hall 

Was feeding robins in a cage, — 

Two corpulent and lazy birds, 

Vagrants and pilferers at best, 

If one might trust the hostler’s 
words, 

Chief instrument of their arrest ; 

Two poets of the Golden Age, 

Heirs of a boundless heritage 

Of fields and orchards, east and 


west, 80 
And sunshine of long summer 
days, 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





Though outlawed now and dispos 
sessed ! —- 
Such was the Theologian’s phrase 


Meanwhile the Student held dis 
course 

With the Musician, on the soureé 

Of all the legendary lore 

Among the nations, scattered wide 

Like silt and seaweed by the force 

And fluctuation of the tide ; 

The tale repeated o’er and o’er, ga 

With change of place and change 
of name, 

Disguised, transformed, and yet 
the same 

We've heard a hundred times be. 
fore. 


The Poet at the window mused, 

And saw, as in a dream confused, 

The countenance of the Sun, dis. 
crowned, 

And haggard with a pale despair, 

And saw the cloud-rack trail and 
drift 

Before it, and the trees uplift 

Their leafless branches, and the 
air 100 

Filled with the arrows of the rain, 

And heard amid the mist below, 

Like voices of distress and pain, 

That haunt the thoughts of men 
insane, 

The fateful cawings of the crow. 


Then down the road, with mud be. 
sprent, 

And drenched with rain from head 
to hoof, 

The rain-drops dripping from his 
mane 

And tail as froma pent-house roof, 

A jaded horse, his head down 
bent, 110 

Passed slowly, limping as he went, 


The young Sicilian — who had 
grown 

Impatient longer to abide 

A prisoner, greatly mortified 


THE SICILIAN’S: TALE 


315 





To see completely overthrown 

His plans for angling in the brook, 

And, leaning o’er the bridge of 
stone, 

To watch the speckled trout glide 
by, 

And float through the inverted sky, 

Btill round and round the baited 


hook — 120 
Now paced the room with rapid 
stride, 


And, pausing at the Poet’s side, 

Looked forth, and saw the wretch- 
ed steed, 

And said: * Alas for human greed, 

That with cold hand and stony 
eye 

Thus turns an old friend out to die, 

Or beg his food from gate to gate! 

This brings a tale into my mind, 

Which, if you are not disinclined 

To listen, I will now relate.’ —130 


All gave assent; all wished to 
hear, 

Not without many a jest and jeer, 

The story of a spavined steed ; 

And even the Student with the rest 

Put in his pleasant little jest 

Out of Malherbe, that Pegasus 

Is but a horse that with all speed 

Bears poets to the hospital; 

While the Sicilian, self-possessed, 

After a moment’s interval 140 

Began his simple story thus. 


THE SICILIAN’S TALE 
THE BELL OF ATRI 


At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town 

Of ancient Roman date, but scant 
renown, 

One of those little places that have 
run 

Half up the hill, beneath a blazing 
sun, 

And then sat down to rest, as if to 
Say, 

I climb no farther upward, come 

what may,’— 


—— —— 


The Re Giovanni, now unknown to 
fame, 

So many monarchs since have 
borne the name, 

Had a great bell hung in the mar- 
ket-place, 

Beneath a roof, projecting some 
small space 10 

By way of shelter from the sun 
and rain. 

Then rode he through the streets 
with all his train, 

And, with the blast of trumpets 
loud and long, 

Made proclamation, that whenever 
wrong 

Was done to any man, he should 
but ring 

The great bell in the square, and 
he, the King, 

Would cause the Syndic to decide 
thereon. 

Such was the proclamation of King 
John. 


How swift the happy days in Atri 
sped, 

What wrongs were righted, need 
not here be said. 20 

Suffice it that, as all things must 
decay, 

The hempen rope at length was 
worn away, 

Unravelled at the end, and, strand 
by strand, 

Loosened and wasted in the ring- 
er’s hand, 

Till one, who noted this in passing 
by, 

Mended the rope with braids of 
briony, 

So that the leaves and tendrils of 
the vine 

Hung like a votive garland at a 
shrine. 


By chance it happened that in Atri 
dwelt 

A knight, with spur on heel and 
sword in belt, 3a 


316 


Who loved to hunt the wild-boar 
in the woods, 

Who loved his falcons with their 
crimson hoods, 

Who loved his hounds and horses, 
and all sports 

And prodigalities of camps and 
courts ; — 

Loved, or had loved them; for at 
last, grown old, 

His only passion was the love of 
gold. 


He sold his horses, sold his hawks 
and hounds, 

Rented his vineyards and his gar- 
den-grounds, 

Kept but one steed, his favorite 
steed of all, 

To starve and shiver in a naked 
stall, 40 

And day by day sat. brooding in 
his chair, 

Devising plans how best to hoard 
and spare. 


At length he said: ‘What is the 
use or need 

To keep at my own cost this lazy 
steed, 

Eating his head off in my stables 
here, 

When rents are low and provender 
is dear? 

Let him go feed upon the public 
ways; 

{I want him only for the holidays.’ 

So the old steed was turned into 
the heat 

Of the long, lonely, silent, shade- 
less street ; 50 

And wandered in suburban lanes 
forlorn, 

Barked at by dogs, and torn by 
brier and thorn. 


One afternoon, as in that sultry 
clime 

It is the custom in the summer 
time, 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


With bolted doors and window. 
shutters closed, 
The inhabitants of Atri slept or 


dozed; 

When suddenly upon their senses 
fell 

The loud alarm of the accusing 
bell! 

The Syndic started from his deep 
repose, 

Turned on his couch, and listened, 
and then rose 60 


And donned his robes, and with re. 
luctant pace 

Went panting forth into the mar- 
ket-place, 

Where the great bell upon its cross- 
beams swung, 

Reiterating with persistent tongue, 

In half-articnlate jargon, the old 
song: 

‘Some one hath done a wrong, 
hath done a wrong!’ 


But ere he reached the belfry’s 
light arcade 

He saw, or thought he saw, be- 
neath its shade, 

No shape of human form of woman 
born, 

But a poor steed dejected and for- 
lorn, 70 

Who with uplifted head and eager 
eye 

Was tugging at the vines of briony. 

*Domeneddio!? cried the Syndie 
straight, 

‘This is the Knight of Atri’s steed 
of state! 

He calls for justice, being sore dis- 
tressed, 

And pleads his cause as loudly an 
the best.’ 


Meanwhile from street and lane a 
noisy crowd 

Had rolled together like a summer 
cloud, 

And told the story of the wretched 
beast 


INTERLUDE 


317 





In five-and-twenty different ways 
at least, 80 

With much gesticulation and ap- 
peal 

To heathen gods, in their exces- 
Sive zeal. 

The Knight was called and ques- 
tioned ; in reply 

Did not confess the fact, did not 
deny ; 

Treated the matter as a pleasant 
jest, 

And set at naught the Syndic and 
the rest, 

Maintaining, in an angry under- 
tone, 

That he should do what pleased 
him with his own. 


And thereupon the Syndic gravely 


read 
The proclamation of the King; 
then said: go 


*Pride goeth forth on horseback 
grand and gay, 

But cometh back on foot, and begs 
its way; 

Fame is the fragrance of heroic 
deeds, 

Of flowers of chivalry and not of 
weeds! 

These are familiar proverbs; but 
I fear 

They never yet have reached your 
knightly ear. 

What fair renown, what honor, 
what repute 

Can come to you from starving this 
poor brute? 

He who serves well and speaks 
not, merits more 

Than they who clamor loudest at 


the door. 100 
Therefore the law decrees that as 
this steed 


Served you in youth, henceforth 
you shall take heed 

To comfort his old age, and to pro- 
vide 

Shelter in stall, and food and field 
beside.’ 


The Knight withdrew abashed; 
the people all 

Led home the steed in triumph to 
his stall. 

The King heard and approved, and 
laughed in glee, 

And cried aloud: ‘Right well it 
pleaseth me! 

Church-bells at best but ring us to 
the door ; 

But go not in to mass; my bell 
doth more: 110 

It cometh into court and pleads 
the cause 

Of creatures dumb and unknown 
to the laws ; 

And this shall make, in every 
Christian clime, 

The Bell of Atri famous for all 
time.’ 


INTERLUDE 


‘YES, well your story pleads the 
cause 

Of those dumb mouths that have 
no speech, 

Only a cry from each to each 

In its own kind, with its own laws: 

Something that is beyond the reach 

Of human power to learn or 
teach, — 

An inarticulate moan of pain, 

Like the immeasurable main 

Breaking upon an unknown 
beach.’ 


Thus spake the Poet with a sigh ; 
Then added, with impassioned cry, 
As one who feels the words he 
speaks, 
The color flushing in his cheeks, 
The fervor burning in his eye: 
‘Among the noblest in the land, 
Though he may count himself the 
least, 
That man I honor and revere 
Who without favor, without fear, 
In the great city dares to stand 
The friend of every friendless 
beast, 





318 

And tames with his unflinching 
hand 

The brutes that wear our form and 
face, 

The were-wolves of the human 
race 

Then paused, and waited with a 
frown, 

Like some old champion of ro- 
mance, 

Who, having thrown his gauntlet 
down, 


Expectant leans upon his lance ; 
But neither Knight nor Squire is 


found 

To raise the gauntlet from the 
ground, 

And try with him the battle’s 
chance. 


‘Wake from your dreams, O Ed- 
rehi! 

Or dreaming speak to us, and make 

A feint of being half awake, 

And tellus what your dreams may 
be. 

Out of the hazy atmosphere 

Of cloud-land deign to reappear 

Among us in this Wayside Inn; 

Tell us what visions and what 
scenes 

Illuminate the dark ravines 

In which you grope your way. Be- 
gin!’ 

Thus the Sicilian spake. The 
Jew 

Made no reply, but only smiled, 

As men unto a wayward child, 

Not knowing what to answer, do. 

As from a cavern’s mouth, o’er- 
grown 

With moss and intertangled vines, 

A streamlet leaps into the light 

And murmurs over root and stone 

In a melodious undertone ; 

Or as amid the noonday night 

Of sombre and wind-haunted pines 

There runs a sound as of the sea: 

so from his bearded lips there 
came 








TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


ee eee 


A melody without a name, 

A song, a tale, a history, 

Or whatsoever it may be, 

Writ and recorded in these lines. 


THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE 


KAMBALU 


INTO the city of Kambalu, 

By the road that leadeth to Ispa- 
han, 

At the head of his dusty caravan, 

Laden with treasure from realms 
afar, 

Baldaceca and Kelat and Kanda- 
har, 

Rode the great captain Alau. 


The Khan from his palace-window 
gazed, 

And saw in the thronging street 
beneath, 

Tn the light of the setting sun, that 
blazed 

Through the clouds of dust by the 
caravan raised, 10 

The flash of harness and jewelled 
sheath, 

And the shining scimitars of the 
guard, 

And the weary camels that bared 
their teeth, 

As they passed and _ passed 
through the gates unbarred 

Into the shade of the palace-yard. 


Thus into the city of Kambalu 

Rode the great captain Alau; 

And he stood before the Khan, and 
said: 

‘ The enemies of my lord are dead ; 

All the Kalifs of all the West 20 

Bow and obey thy least behest; 

The plains are dark with the mul 
berry-trees, 

The weavers are busy in Samar: 
eand, 

The miners are sifting the golden 
sand, 


THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE 


eee 


The divers plunging for pearls in 
the seas, 

And peace and plenty are in the 
land, 


*Baldacca’s Kalif, and he alone, 

Rose in revolt against thy throne: 

His treasures are at thy palace- 
door, 

With the swords and the shawls 
and the jewels he wore; 30 

His body is dust o’er the desert 
blown. 


*A mile outside of Baldacca’s gate 

I left my forces to lie in wait, 

Concealed by forests and hillocks 
of sand, 

And forward dashed with a hand- 
ful of men, 

To lure the old tiger from his 
den 

{nto the ambush T had planned. 

Ere we reached the town the alarm 
was spread, 

For we heard the sound of gongs 
from within ; 

And with elash of cymbals and 
warlike din 40 

The gates swung wide; and we 
turned and fled; 

And the garrison sallied forth and 
pursued, © 

With the gray old Kalif at their 
head, 

And above them the banner of 
Mohammed ; 

So we snared them all, and the 
town was subdued. 


‘ As inat the gate we rode, behold, 

A tower that is called the Tower 
of Gold! 

For there the Kalif had hidden his 
wealth, 

Heaped and hoarded and piled on 
high, 


Like sacks of wheat in a gran- 
ary; 50 


And thither the miser crept by 
stealth 


319 

To feel of the gold that gave him 
health, 

And to gaze and gloat with his 
hungry eye 

On jewels that gleamed like aglow. 
worm’s spark, 

Or the eyes of a panther in the 
dark. 


‘I said to the Kalif: “Thou art 
old, 

Thou hast no need of so much 
gold. 

Thou shouldst not have heaped 
and hidden it here, 

Till the breath of battle was hot 
and near, 

But have sown through the land 


these useless hoards 60 

To spring into shining blades of 
swords, 

And keep thine honor sweet and 
clear. 

These grains of goldare not grains 
of wheat; 

These bars of silver thou canst not 
eat; 


These jewels and pearls and pre- 
cious stones 

Cannot cure the aches inthy bones, 

Nor keep the feet of Death one 
hour 

From climbing the stairways of 
thy tower !”’ 


‘Then into his dungeon I locked 
the drone, 
And left him to feed there all 


alone 70 
In the honey-cells of his golden 
hive ; 
Never a prayer, nor a cry, nor a 
groan 


Was heard from those massive 
walls of stone, 

Nor again was the Kalif seen 
alive! 


‘When at last we unlocked the 
door, 
We found him dead upon the floor; 


The rings had dropped from his 
withered hands, 

His teeth were like bones in the 
desert sands: 

Still clutching his treasure he had 


died; 

And as he lay there, he ap- 
peared 80 

A statue of gold with a silver 
beard, 

His arms outstretched as if cruci- 
fied.’ 


This is the story, strange and true, 

That the great captain Alau 

Told to his brother the Tartar 
Khan, 

When he rode that day into Kam- 
balu 

By the road that leadeth to Ispa- 
han. 


INTERLUDE 


*I THOUGHT before your tale be- 
gan,’ 

The Student murmured, 
should have 

Some legend written by Judah Rav 

In his Gemara of Babylon ; 

Or something from the Gulistan, — 

The tale of the Cazy of Hamadan, 

Or of that King of Khorasan 

Who saw in dreams the eyes of one 

That had a hundred years been 
dead 

Still moving restless in his head, 

Undimmed, and gleaming with the 
lust 

Of power, though all the rest was 
dust. 


we 


*But Jo! your glittering caravan 

On the road that leadeth to Ispa- 
han 

Hath led us farther to the East 

Into the regions of Cathay. 

Spite of your Kalif and his gold, 

Pleasant has been the tale you 
told, 





TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


And full of color; that at least 
No one will question or gainsay. 
And yet on such a dismal day 
We need a merrier tale to clear 
The dark and heavy atmosphere. 
So listen, Lordlings, while I tell, 
Without a preface, what befell 

A simple cobbler, in the year — 
No matter; it was long ago; 
And that is all we need to know.’ 


THE STUDENT'S TALE 
THE COBBLER OF HAGENAU 


I TRUST that somewhere and 
somehow 

You all have heard of Hagenau, 

A quiet, quaint, and ancient town 

Among the green Alsatian hills, 

A place of valleys, streams, and 
mills, 

Where Barbarossa’s castle, brown 

With rust of centuries, still looks 


down 

On the broad, drowsy land be- 
low, — 

On shadowy forests filled with 
game, 

And the blue river winding slow to 

Through meadows, where the 


hedges grow 
That give this little town its name. 


It happened in the good old times, 
While yet the Master-singers filled ~ 
The noisy workshop and the guild 
With various melodies and rhymes, 
That here in Hagenau there dwelt 
A cobbler,—one who loved de- 
bate, 
And, arguing from a postulate, 
Would say what others only 
felt; 2¢ 
A man of forecast and of thrift, 
And of ashrewd and careful mind 
In this world’s business, but in- 
clined 
Somewhat to let the next world 
drift. 


THE STUDENT’S TALE 


Hans Sachs with vast delight he 
read, 

And Regenbogen’s rhymes of love, 

For their poetic fame had spread 

Even to the town of Hagenau; 

And some Quick Melody of the 


Plough, 
Or Double Harmony of the 
Dove 30 


Was always running in his head. 

He kept, moreover, at his side, 

Among his leathers and his tools, 

Reynard the Fox, the Ship of 
Fools, 

Or Eulenspiegel, open wide; 

With these he was much edified: 

He thought them wiser than the 
Schools. 


His good wife, full of godly fear, 
Liked not these worldly themes to 


hear; 
The Psalter was her book of 
Songs ; 40 


The only musie to her ear 
Was that which to the Chureh be- 


longs, 

When the loud choir on Sunday 
chanted, 

And the two angels carved in 
wood, 


That by the windy organ stood, 

Blew on their trumpets loud and 
clear, 

And all the echoes, far and near, 

Gibbered as if the church were 
haunted. 


Outside his door, one afternoon, 
This humble votary of the muse 50 
Sat in the narrow strip of shade 
By a projecting cornice made, 
Mending the Burgomaster’s shoes, 
And singing a familiar tune :— 


‘ Our ingress into the world 
Was naked and bare; 

Our progress through the world 
Is trouble and care; 

Our egress from the world 

Will be nobody knows where : 





321 


But if we do well here 61 
We shall do well there ; 

And I could tell you no more, 
Should I preach a whole year !? 


Thus sang the cobbler at his work; 

And with his gestures marked the 
time, 

Closing together with a jerk 


Of his waxed thread the stitch and 


rhyme. 


Meanwhile his quiet little dame 

Was leaning o’er the window- 
sill, 70 

Eager, excited, but mouse-still, 

Gazing impatiently to see 

What the great throng of folk 
might be 

That onward in procession came, 

Along the unfrequented street, 

With horns that blew, and drums 
that beat, 

And banners flying, and the flame 

Of tapers, and, at times, the sweet 

Voices of nuns; and as they sang 

Suddenly all the church- bells 
rang. 80 


In a gay coach, above the crowd, 
There sat a monk in ample hood, 
Who with his right hand held aloft 
A red and ponderous cross of 


wood, 

To which at times he meekly 
bowed. 

In front three horsemen rode, and 
oft, 


With voice and air importunate, 

A boisterous herald cried aloud: 

‘ The grace of God is at your gate! 

So onward to the church they 
passed, 90 


The cobbler slowly turned his last, 
And, wagging his sagacious head, 
Unto his kneeling housewife said ; 


‘“°T is the monk Tetzel. I have 
heard 

The cawings of that reverend 
bird. 


322 


Don’t let him cheat you of your 
gold; 

Indulgence is not bought and 
sold.’ 


The church of Hagenau, that 
night, 

Was full of people, full of light : 

An odor of incense filled the 


alr, 100 
The priest intoned, the organ 
groaned 


Its inarticulate despair; 

The candles on the altar blazed, 

And full in front of it upraised 

The red cross stood against the 
glare. 

Below, upon the altar-rail 

Indulgences were set to sale, 

Like ballads at a country fair. 

A heavy strong-box, iron-bound 

And carved with many a quaint 
device, 110 

Received, with a melodious sound, 

The cointbat purchased Paradise. 


Then from the pulpit overhead, 

Tetzel the monk, with fiery glow, 

Thundered upon the crowd below. 

‘Good people all, draw near!’ he 
said ; 

‘Purchase these letters, signed 
and sealed, 

By which all sins, though unre- 
vealed 

And unrepented, are forgiven ! 

Count but the gain, count not the 
loss! 120 

Your gold and silver are but dross, 

And yet they pave the way to hea- 
ven. 

I hear your mothers and your sires 

Cry from their purgatorial fires, 

And will ye not their ransom pay? 

O senseless people ! when the gate 

Of heaven is open, will ye wait? 

Will ye not enter in to-day ? 

To-morrow it will be too late ; 

I shall be gone upon my way. 130 

Make haste! bring money while 
ye may !” 


TALES .OF A WAYSIDE, INN 


< 


The women shuddered, and turned 
pale ; 

Allured by hope or driven by fear, 

With many a sob and many a tear, 

All crowded to the altar-rail. 

Pieces of silver and of gold 

Into the tinkling strong-box fell 

Like pebbles dropped into a well; 

And soon the ballads were all 


sold. 
The cobbler’s wife among the 
rest 140 


Slipped into the capacious chest 

A golden florin; then withdrew, 

Hiding the paper in her breast ; 

And homeward through the dark- 
ness went 

Comforted, quieted, content ; 

She did not walk, she rather flew, 

A dove that settles to her nest, 

When some appalling bird of prey 

That scared her has been driven 
away. 


The days went by, the monk was 


gone, 150 
The summer passed, the winter 
came; 


Though seasons changed, yet still 
the same 

The daily round of life went on; 

The daily round of household eare, 

The narrow life of toil and prayer. 

But in her heart the cobbler’s 
dame 

Had now a treasure beyond price, 

A secret joy without a name, 

The certainty of Paradise. 

Alas, alas! Dust unto dust! 

Before the winter wore away, 

Her body in the churchyard lay, 

Her patient soul was with the 
Just! 

After her death, among the things 

That even the poor preserve with 
care, — 

Some little trinkets and cheap 
rings, 

A locket with her mother’s hair, 

Her wecding gown, the faded 
flowers 


160 





She wore upon her wedding day, — 

Among these memories of past 
hours, 170 

That so much of the heart reveal, 

Carefully kept and put away, 

The Letter of Indulgence lay 

Folded, with signature and seal. 


Meanwhile the Priest, aggrieved 
and pained, 

Waited and wondered that no 
word 

Of mass or requiem he heard, 

As by the Holy Church ordained: 

Then to the Magistrate com- 


plained, 
That as this woman had been 
dead 180 
A week or more, and no mass 
said, 


{t was rank heresy, or at least 

Contempt of Church; thus said 
the Priest ; 

And straight the cobbler was ar- 
raigned. 


He came, confiding in his cause, 

But rather doubtful of the laws. 

The Justice from his elbow-chair 

Gave him a look that seemed to 
say: r 

‘Thou standest before a Magis- 
trate, 

Therefore do not prevaricate !’ 190 


Then asked him in a business 
way, 

Kindly but cold: ‘Is thy wife 
dead?’ 

The cobbler meekly bowed his 
head ; 

°She is,’ came struggling from his 
throat 


Searce audibly. The Justice wrote 

The words down in a book, and 
then 

Continued, as he raised his pen; 

*She is; and hath a mass been 
said 

For the salvation of her soul? 

Come, speak the truth: confess 
the whole!’ 200 


THE STUDENT'S TALE 








VRE 


The cobbler without pause re- 
plied: 

‘Of mass or prayer there was no 
need; 

For at the moment when she died 

Her soul was with the glorified!’ 

And from his pocket with all 
speed 

He drew the priestly title-deed, 

And prayed the Justice he would 
read. 


The Justice read, amused, amazed; 

And as he read his mirth in- 
creased ; 

At times his shaggy brows he 


raised, 210 

Now wondering at the cobbler 
gazed, 

Now archly at the angry Priest. 

‘From all excesses, sins, and 
crimes 

Thou hast committed in past 
times 

Thee I absolve! And further- 
more, 


Purified from all earthly taints, 

To the communion of the Saints 

And to the sacraments restore! 

All stains of weakness, and all 
trace 

Of shame and censure I efface ; 

Remit the pains thou shouldst en- 
dure, 221 

And make thee innocent and pure, 

So that in dying, unto thee 

The gates of heaven shall open 
be! 

Though long thou livest, yet this 
grace 

Until the moment of thy death 

Unchangeable continueth !? 


Then said he to the Priest: ‘I find 
This document is duly signed 
Brother John Tetzel, his own 


hand. 230 
At all tribunals in the land 
In evidence it may be used; 
Therefore acquitted is the ac 


cused.’ 


324 


Then to the cobbler turned: ‘ My 
friend, 

Pray tell me, didst thou ever read 

Reynard the Fox?’—‘ Oh yes, in- 


deed!’ — 
‘I thought so. Don’t forget the 
end.’ 
INTERLUDE 


‘WHAT was the end? I am 
ashamed 

Not to remember Reynard’s fate ; 

I have not read the book of late; 

Was he not hanged?’ the Pvuet 
said. 

The Student gravely shook his 
head, 

And answered: ‘ You exaggerate. 

There was a tournament pro- 
claimed, 

And Reynard fought with Isegrim 

The Wolf, and having vanquished 
him, 

Rose to high honor in the State, 

And Keeper of the Seals was 
named!’ ; 

At this the gay Sicilian laughed: 

‘Fight fire with fire, and craft with 
craft; 

Successful cunning seems to be 

The moral of your tale,’ said he. 

‘Mine had a better, and the Jew’s 

Had none at all, that I could see; 

His aim was only to amuse.’ 


Meanwhile from out its ebon case 

His violin the Minstrel drew, 

And having tuned its strings anew, 

Now held it close in his embrace, 

And poising in his outstretched 
hand 

The bow, like a magician’s wand, 

He paused, and said, with beam- 
ing face: 

‘Last night my story was too 
long; 

To-day I give you but a song, 

An old tradition of the North; 

But first, to put you in the mood, 

I will a little while prelude, 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





And from this instrument draw 
forth 
Something by way of overture.’ 


He played; at first the tones were 
pure 

And tender as a summer night, 

The full moon climbing to her 
height, 

The sob and ripple of the seas, 

The flapping of an idle sail; 

And then by sudden and sharp de- 
grees 

The multiplied, wild harmonies 

Freshened and burst into a gale; 

A tempest howling through the 
dark, 

A crash as of some shipwrecked 
bark, 

A loud and melancholy wail. 


Such was the prelude to the tale 


Told by the Minstrel; and at 
times 

He paused amid its varying 
rhymes, 


And at each pause again broke in 
The music of his violin, 

With tones of sweetness or of fear, 
Movements of trouble or of calm, 
Creating their own atmosphere ; 
As sitting in a-church we hear 
Between the verses of the psalm 
The organ playing soft and clear, 
Or thundering on the startled ear. 


THE MUSICIAN'S TALE 
THE BALLAD OF CARMILHAN 


I 


AT Stralsund, by the Baltic Sea, 
Within the sandy bar, 

At sunset of a summer’s day, 

Ready for sea, at anchor lay 
The good ship Valdemar. 


The sunbeams danced upon the 
waves, 
And played along her side; 


THE MUSICIAN’S TALE 





And through the cabin windows 


streamed 
In ripples of golden light, that 
seemed 
The ripple of the tide. 10 


There sat the captain with his 
friends, 
Old skippers brown and hale, 
Who smoked and grumbled o’er 
their grog, 
And talked of iceberg and of fog, 
Of calm and storm and gale. 


And one was spinning a sailor’s 
* yarn 
About Klaboterman, 
The Kobold of the sea; a spright 
Invisible to mortal sight, 
Who o’er the rigging ran. 20 


Sometimes he hammered in the 
hold, 
Sometimes upon the mast, 


Sometimes abeam, sometimes 
abaft, 

Or at the bows he sang and 
laughed, 


And made all tight and fast. 


He helped the sailors at their 
work, J 
And toiled with jovial din; 
He helped them hoist and reef the 
Sails, 
He helped them stow the casks 
and bales, 
And heave the anchor in. 30 


But woe unto the lazy louts, 
The idlers of the crew; 
Them to torment was his delight, 
And worry them by day and night, 
And pinch them black and blue. 


And woe to him whose mortal eyes 
Klaboterman behold. 
It is a certain sign of death! — 
The cabin-boy here held 
breath, 
He felt his blood run cold. 40 


his 


II 
The jolly skipper paused awhile, 
And then again began; 
‘There is a Spectre Ship,’ quoth 
he, 
‘A ship of the Dead that sails the 
sea, 
And is called the Carmilhan. 


‘A ghostly ship, with a ghostly 
crew, 
In tempests she appears; 
And before the gale, or against 
the gale, 
She sails without a rag of sail, 
Without a helmsman steers. 50 


‘She haunts the Atlantic north 
and south, 
But mostly the mid-sea, 
Where three great rocks rise bleak 
and bare 
Like furnace chimneys in the air, 
And are called the Chimneys 
Three. 


‘And ill betide the luckless ship 
That meets the Carmilhan ; 

Over her decks the seas will leap, 

She must go down into the deep, 
And perish mouse and man.’ 60 


The captain of the Valdemar 
Laughed loud with merry heart. 
‘I should like to see this ship,’ 
said he; 
‘TI should like to find these Chim- 
neys Three 
That are marked down in the 
chart. 


‘T have sailed right over the spot,’ 
he said, 
‘With a good stiff breeze be- 
hind, 
When the sea was blue, and the 
sky was clear, — 
You can follow my course by these 
pinholes here, — 
And never a rock could find.’ 7¢ 


326 

And then he swore a dreadful 
oath, 

He swore by the Kingdoms 

Three, 

That, should he meet the Carmil- 
han, 

He would run her down, although 
he ran 


Right into Eternity! 


All this, while passing to and 
fro, 
The cabin-boy had heard; 
He lingered at the door to hear, 
And drank in all with greedy ear, 
And pondered every word. 80 


He was a simple country lad, 
But of a roving mind. 
‘Oh, it must be like heaven,’ 
thought he, 
* Those far-off foreign lands to see, 
And fortune seek and find !? 


But in the fo’castle, when he heard 
The mariners blaspheme, 
He thought of home, he thought of 
God, 
And his mother under the church- 
' yard sod, 
And wished it were a dream. go 


One friend on board that ship had 
he; 
*T was the Klaboterman, 
Who saw the Bible in his chest, 
And made a sign upon his breast, 
All evil things to ban. 


IIr 


The cabin windows have grown 
blank 
As eyeballs of the dead ; 
No more the glancing sunbeams 
burn 
On the gilt letters of the stern, 
But on the figure-head ; 100 
On Valdemar Victorious, 
Who looketh with disdain 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 








To see his image in the tide 
Dismembered float from side ta 
side, 
And reunite again. 


‘It is the wind,’ those skippers 
said, 
‘That swings the vessel so; 
It is the wind; it freshens fast, 
’T is time to say farewell at last, 
’T is time for us to go.’ 110 


They shook the captain by the 
hand, 
‘Good luck! good luck!’ they 
cried; 
Each face was like the setting sun, 
As, broad and red, they one by one 
Went o’er the vessel’s side. 


The sun went down, the full moon 
rose, 

Serene o’er field and flood ; 

And all the winding creeks and 
bays 

And broad sea-meadows seemed 
ablaze, 

The sky was red as blood. 120 
The southwest wind blew fresh 

and fair, 

As fair as wind could be; 
Bound for Odessa, o’er the bar, 
With all sail set, the Valdemar 

Went proudly out to sea. 


The lovely moon climbs up the sky 
As one who walks in dreams; 

A tower of marble in her light, 

A wall of black, a wall of white, 
The stately vessel seems. 134 


Low down upon the sandy coast 
The lights begin to burn; 

And now, uplifted high in air, 

They kindle with a fiercer glare, 
And now drop far astern. 


The dawn appears, the land is 
gone, 
The sea is all around, 


THE MUSICIAN’S TALE 





327 





Then on each hand low hills of 
sand 
Emerge and form another land; 
She steereth through the Sound. 


Through Kattegat and Skager- 
rack I4t 
She flitteth like a ghost; 
By day and night, by night and 
day, 
She bounds, she flies upon her wav 
Along the English coast. 


Cape Finisterre is drawing near, 
Cape Finisterre is past; 

Into the open ocean stream 

She floats, the vision of a dream 
Too beautiful to last. 150 


Suns rise and set, and rise, and yet 
There is no land in sight; 
The liquid planets overhead 
Burn brighter now the moon is 
dead, 
And longer stays the night. 


IV 


And now along the horizon’s edge 
Mountains of cloud uprose, 
Black as with forests underneath, 
Above, their sharp and jagged 
teeth 
Were white as drifted snows. 160 


Unseen behind them sank the 
sun, 
But flushed each snowy peak 
A little while with rosy light, 
That faded slowly from the sight 
As blushes from the cheek. 


Black grew the sky,—all black, 
all black ; 

The clouds were everywhere; 
There was a feeling of suspense 
In nature, a mysterious sense 

Of terror in the air. 170 
And all on board the Valdemar 

Was still as still could be; 


Save when the dismal ship-bell 
tolled, 
As ever and anon she rolled, 
And lurched into the sea. 


The captain up and down the deck 
Went striding to and fro; 
Now watched the compass at the 
wheel, 
Now lifted up his hand to feel 179 
Which way the wind might blow. 


And now he looked up at the sails, 
And now upon the deep; 

In every fibre of his frame 

He felt the storm before it came, 
He had no thought of sleep. 


Eight bells! and suddenly abaft, 
With a great rush of rain, 
Making the ocean white with 
spume, 
In darkness like the day of doom, 
On came the hurricane. 190 


The lightning flashed from cloud 
to cloud, 
And rent the sky in two; 
A jagged flame, a single jet 
Of white fire, like a bayonet, 
That pierced the eyeballs 
through. 


Then all around was dark again, 
And blacker than before; 
But in that single flash of light 
He had beheld a fearful sight, 
And thought of the oath he 
swore, 200 


For right ahead lay the Ship of the 
Dead, 
The ghostly Carmijhan! 
Her masts were stripped, her 
yards were bare, 
And on her bowsprit, poised in air, 
Sat the Klaboterman. 


Her crew of ghosts was all on 
deck 
Or clambering up the shrouds; 


328 


The boatswain’s whistle, the cap- 
tain’s hail 
Were like the piping of the gale, 
And thunder in the clouds. 210 


And close behind the Carmilhan 
There rose up from the sea, 
As from a foundered ship of stone, 
Three bare and splintered masts 
alone: 
They were the Chimneys Three. 


And onward dashed the Valdemar 
And leaped into the dark ; 

A denser mist, a colder blast, 

A little shudder, and she had 


passed 
Right through the Phantom 
Bark. 220 


She cleft in twain the shadowy 
hulk, 
But cleft it unaware ; 
As when, careering to her nest, 
The sea-gull severs with her breast 
The unresisting air. 


Again the lightning flashed ; again 
They saw the Carmilhan, 

Whole as before in hull and spar; 

But now on board of the Valdemar 
Stood the Klaboterman. 230 


And they all knew their doom was 
sealed; 
They knew that death was near; 
Some prayed who never prayed 
before, 
And some they wept, and some 
they swore, 
And some were mute with fear. 


Then suddenly there came a shock, 
And louder than wind or sea 
A cry burst from the crew on deck, 
As she dashed and crashed, a hope- 
less wreck, 
Upon the Chimneys Three. 240 
The storm and night were passed, 
the light 
To streak the east began; 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


~—.-—4t 


The cabin-boy, picked up at sea, 
Survived the wreck, and only he, 
To tell of the Carmilban. 


INTERLUDE 


WHEN the long murmur of ap. 
plause 

That greeted the Musician’s lay 

Had slowly buzzed itself away, 

And the long talk of Spectre Ships 

That followed died upon their lips 

And came unto a natural pause, 

‘These tales you tell are one and 
all 

Of the Old World, the Poet said, 

‘Flowers gathered from a crum- 
bling wall, 

Dead leaves that rustle as they 
fall; 

Let me present you in their stead 

Something of our New England 
earth, 

A tale, which, though of no great 
worth, 

Has still this merit, that it yields 

A certain freshness of the fields, 

A sweetness as of home-made 
bread.’ 


The Student answered: ‘Be dis. 
creet; 

For if the flour be fresh and 
sound, 

And if the bread be light and 
sweet, 

Who ecareth in what mill °*t was 
ground, 

Or of what oven felt the heat, 

Unless, as old Cervantes said, 

You are looking after better bread 

Than any that is made of wheat? 

You know that people nowadays 

To what is old give little praise; 

All must be new in prose and 
verse ; 

They want hot bread, or something 
worse, 

Fresh every morning, and halt 
baked ; 


THE POET'S “TALE 


The wholesome bread of yester- 
day, 

Too stale for them, is thrown 
away, 

Nor is their thirst with water 
slaked.’ 


As oft we see the sky in May 

hreaten to rain, and yet not rain, 
The Poet’s face, before so gay, 
Was clouded with a look of pain, 
But suddenly brightened up again; 
And without further let or stay 
He told his tale of yesterday. 


THE POET'S TALE 
LADY WENTWORTH 


ONE hundred years ago, and some- 
thing more, 

In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at 
her tavern door, 

Neat as a pin, and blooming asa 
rose, 

Stood Mistress Stavers in her fur- 
belows, 

Just as her cuckoo-clock was strik- 
ing nine. 

Above her head, resplendent on 
the sign, © 

The portrait of the Earl of Hali- 
fax, 

In scarlet coat and periwig of flax, 

Surveyed at leisure all her varied 
charms, 

Her cap, her bodice, her white 
folded arms, 10 

And half resolved, though he was 
past his prime, 

And rather damaged by the lapse 
of time, 

To fail down at her feet, and to 
declare 

- The passion that had driven him 
to despair. 

For from his lofty station he had 
seen 

Stavers, her husband, dressed in 
bottle-green, 


» 


579 


Drive his new Flying Stage-coach, 
four in hand, 

Down the long lane, and out into 
the land, 

And knew that he was far upun 


the way 
To Ipswich and to Boston on the 
Bay! 20 


Just then the meditations of the 
Earl 

Were interrupted by a little girl, 

Barefooted, ragged, with neglected 
hair, 

Eyes full of laughter, neck and 
shoulders bare, 

A thin slip of a girl, like a new 
moon, 

Sure to be rounded into beauty 
soon, 

A creature men would worship 
and adore, 

Though now in mean habiliments 
she bore 

A pail of water, dripping throjgh 
the street, 

And bathing. as she went, her 
naked feet. 30 


It was a pretty picture, ful? of 
grace, — 

The slender form, the delicate, 
thin face ; 

The swaying motion, as she hur 
ried by ; 

The shining feet, the laughter in 
her eye, 

That o’er her face in ripples 
gleamed and glanced, 

AS in her pail the shifting sunbeam 
danced: 

And with uncommon feelings of 
delight 

The Earl of Halifax beheld the 
sight. 

Not so Dame Stavers, for he heard 
her say 

These words, or thought he did, as 
plain as day: 40 

‘O Martha Hilton! Fie! how dare 
you go 


330 


TALES.OF A WAYSIDE INN 


——__ eet 


About the town half dressed, and | It was a pleasant mansion, an 


looking so!? 

At which the gypsy laughed, and 
straight replied : 

‘No matter how I look; I yet 
shall ride 

In my own chariot, ma’am.’ 
on the child 

The Earl of Halifax benignly 
smiled, 

As with her heavy burden she 
passed on, 

Looked back, then turned the 
corner, and was gone. 


And 


What next, upon that memorable 


day, 
Arrested his attention was a 
gay 50° 


And brilliant equipage, that flashed 
and spun, 

The silver harness glittering in the 
sun, 

Outriders with red jackets, lithe 
and lank, 

Pounding the saddles as they rose 
and sank, 

While all alone within the chariot 
sat 

A portly person with three-cor- 
nered hat, 

A crimson velvet coat, head high 
in air, 

Gold-headed cane, and nicely pow- 
dered hair, 

And diamond buckles sparkling 
at his knees, 

Dignified, stately, florid, much at 
ease. 4 60 

Onward the pageant swept, and as 
it passed, 

Fair Mistress Stavers courtesied 
jow and fast; 

for this was Governor Wentworth, 
driving down 

To Little Harbor, just beyond the 
town, 

Where his Great House stood look- 
ing out to sea, 

A goodly place, where it was good 
to be. 


abode 

Near and yet hidden from the 
great high-road, 

Sequestered among trees, a noble 
pile, 69 

Baronial and colonial in its style; 

Gables and dormer-windows every- 
where, 

And stacks of chimneys rising high 
in air, — 

Pandan pipes, on which all winds 
that blew 

Made mournful music the whole 
winter through. 

Within, unwonted splendors met 
the eye, 

Panels, and floors of oak, and tap- 
estry ; 

Carved chimney-pieces, where on 
brazen dogs 

Revelled and roared the Christmas. 
fires of logs; 

Doors opening into darkness un- 
awares, 

Mysterious passages, and flights 
of stairs ; 80 

And on the walls, in heavy gilded 
frames, 

The ancestral Wentworths with 
Old-Scripture names. 


Such was the mansion where the 
great man dwelt, 

A widower and childless; and he 
felt 

The loneliness, the uncongeniai 
gloom, 

That like a presence haunted every 
room ; 

For though not given to weakness, 
he could feel ; 

The pain of wounds, that ache be- 
cause they heal. 


The years came and the years 
went, — seven in all, 

And passed in cloud and sunshine 
o’er the Hall; 90 

The dawns their splendor through 
its chambers shed, 


THE POET'S TALE 





The sunsets flushed its western 
windows red ; 

The snow was on the roofs, the 
wind, the rain; 

Its woodlands were in leaf and 
bare again ; 

Moons waxed and waned, the lilacs 
bloomed and died, 

In the broad river ebbed and 
flowed the tide, 

Ships went to sea, and ships came 
home from sea, 

And the slow years sailed by and 
ceased to be. 


and all these years had Martha 
Hilton served 
In the Great House, not wholly 
unobserved : 100 
By day, by night, the silver cres- 
cent grew, 
Though hidden by clouds, her light 
still shining through ; 
A maid of all work, whether coarse 
or fine, 
A servant who made service seem 
divine! 
Through her each room was fair to 
look upon ; 
The mirrors glistened, and the 
brasses shone, 
~The very knocker on the outer 
door, 
If she but passed, was brighter 
than before. 


And now the ceaseless turning of 
the mill 

Of time, that never for an hour 
stands still, TIO 

Ground out the Governor’s six- 
tieth birthday, 

And powdered his brown hair with 
Silver-gray. 

The robin, the forerunner of the 


spring, 

The bluebird with his jocund 
carolling, 

The restless swallows building in 
the eaves, 


The golden buttercups, the grass, 
the leaves, 

The lilacs tossing in the winds of . 
May, 

All welcomed this majestic holi- 
day ! 

He gave a splendid banquet, served 
on plate, 

Such as became the Governor of 
the State, 120 

Who represented England and the 


King, 

And was magnificent in every- 
thing. 

He had invited all his friends and 
peers, — 


The Pepperels, the Langdons, and 
the Lears, 

The Sparhawks, the Penhallows, 
and the rest; 

For why repeat the name of every 
guest? 

But I must mention one in bands 
and gown, 

The rector there, the Reverend 
Arthur Brown 

Of the Established Church; with 
smiling face 

He sat beside the Governor and 
said grace ; 130 

And then the feast went on, as 
others do, 

But ended as none other I e’er 
knew. 


When they had drunk the King, 
with many a cheer, 

The Governor whispered in a ser- 
vant’s ear, 

Who disappeared, and presently 
there stood 

Within the room, in perfect wo- 
manhood, 

A maiden, modest and yet self- 
possessed, 

Youthful and beautiful, and sim. 
ply dressed. 

Can this be Martha Hilton? It 


must be! 
Yes, Martha Hilton, and no other 
she! 140 


a5 


Dowered with the beauty of her 
' twenty years, 

How ladylike, how queenlike she 
appears ; 

The pale, thin crescent of the days 
gone by 

Is Dian now in all her majesty! 

Yet scarce a guest perceived that 
she was there, 

Until the Governor, rising from 
his chair, 

Played slightly with his ruffles, 
then looked down, 

And said unto the Reverend Ar- 
thur Brown: 

‘This is my birthday: it shall 
likewise be 

My wedding-day; and you shall 
marry me!’ 150 


The listening guests were greatly 
mystified, 

None more so than the rector, who 
replied : 

‘Marry you? Yes, that were a 
pleasant task, 

Your Excellency; but to whom? 
Task.’ 

The Governor answered: 
this lady here ;’ 

And beckoned Martha Hilton to 
draw near. 

She came and stood, all blushes, 
at his side. 

The rector paused. The impa- 
tient Governor cried: 

‘ This is the lady ; do you hesitate? 

Then I command you as Chief 
Magistrate.’ 160 

The rector read the service loud 
and clear: 

‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered 
here,’ 

And so on to the end, At his com- 
mand 

On the fourth finger of her fair left 
hand 

The Governor rplaced the ring; 
and that was all: 

Martha was Lady Wentworth of 
the Hall! 


‘To 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


INTERLUDE 


WELL pleased the audience heard 
the tale. 

The Theologian said : ‘ Indeed, 

To praise you there is little need; 

One almost hears the farmer’s flail 

Thresh out your wheat, nor does 
there fail 

A certain freshness, as you said, 

And sweetness as of home-made 
bread, 

Butnotless sweet and notlessfresh 

Are many legends that I know, 

Writ by the monks of long-ago, 

Who loved to mortify the flesh, 

So that the soul might purer grow, 

And rise to a diviner state ; 

And one of these — perhaps of all 

Most beautiful — I now recall, 

And with permission will narrate ; 

Hoping thereby to make amends 

For that grim tragedy of mine, 

As strong and black as Spanish 
wine, 

I told last night, and wish almost 

It had remained untold, my friends; 

For Torquemada’s awful ghost 

Came to me in the dreams I 
dreamed, 

And in the darkness glared and 
gleamed 

Like a great lighthouse on the 
coast.’ 


The Student laughing said: ‘Far 
more 

Like to some dismal fire of bale 
Flaring portentous on a hill; 

Or torches lighted on a shore 

By wreckers in a midnight gale. 
No matter; be it as you will, 

Only go forward with your tale.’ 


THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE 


THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL 


‘HApstT thou stayed, I must have 
fled!’ 
That is what the Vision said. 


THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE 


333 





Tn his chamber all alone, 

{Kneeling on the floor of stone, 

Prayed the Monk in deep contri- 
tion 

For his sins of indecision, 

Prayed for greater self-denial 

In temptation and in trial; 

It was noonday by the dial, 

And the Monk was all alone. 10 


Suddenly, as if it lightened, 

An unwonted splendor brightened 

All within him and without him 

In that narrow cell of stone; 

And he saw the Blessed Vision 

Of our Lord, with light Elysian 

Like a vesture wrapped about 
Him, 

Like a garment 
thrown. 


round Him 


Not as crucified and slain, 

Not in agonies of pain, 20 
Not with bleeding hands and feet, 
Did the Monk his Master see; 

But as in the village street, 

In the house or harvest-field, 

Halt and lame and blind He healed, 
When He walked in Galilee. 


in an attitude imploring, 

Hands upon his bosom crossed, 

Wondering, worshipping, adoring, 

Knelt the Monk in rapture lost. 30 

Lord, he thought, in heaven that 
reignest, 

Who 2am I, that thus thou deignest 

To reveal thyself to me? 

Who am IJ, that from the centre 

Of thy glory thou shouldst enter 

This poor cell, my guest to be? 


Then amid his exaltation, 

Loud the convent bell appalling, 

From its belfry calling, calling, 

Rang through court and corri- 
dor 40 

With persistent iteration 

He had never heard before. 

It was now the appointed hour 

When alike in shine or shower, 


Winter’s cold or summer’s heat, 
To the convent portals came 

All the blind and halt and lame, 
All the beggars of the street, 

For their daily dole of food 

Dealt them by the brotherhood; 50 
And their almoner was he 

Who upon his bended knee, 

Rapt in silent ecstasy 

Of divinest self-surrender, 

Saw the Vision and the Splendor. 
Deep distress and hesitation 
Mingled with his adoration ; 
Should he go or should he stay? 
Should he leave the poor to wait 
Hungry at the convent gate, 60 
Till the Vision passed away ? 
Should he stUght his radiant guest, 
Slight th’s visitant celestial, 

For a c-owd of ragged, bestial 
Beggars at the convent gate ? 
Would the Vision there remain ? 
Would the Vision come again ? 
Then a voice within his breast 
Whispered, audible and clear 

As if to the outward ear: 70 
‘Do thy duty; that is best; 

Leave unto thy Lord the rest!? 


Straightway to his feet he started, 
And with longing look intent 

On the Blessed Vision bent, 
Slowly from his cell departed, 
Slowly on his errand went. 


At the gate the poor were waiting, 

Looking through the iron grating, 

With that terror in the eye 80 

That is only seen in those 

Who amid their wants and woes 

Hear the sound of doors that close, 

And of feet that pass them by; 

Grown familiar with disfavor, 

Grown familiar with the savor 

Of the bread by which men die! 

But to-day, they know not why, 

Like the gate of Paradise 

Seemed the convent gate to rise, 90 

Like a sacrament divine 

Seemed to them the bread and 
wine. 


334 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





In his heart the Monk was pray- 
ing, 

Thinking of the homeless poor, 

What they suffer and endure; 

What we see not, what we see; 

And the inward voice was saying: 

*Whatsoever thing thou doest 

To the least of mine and lowest, 

That thou doest unto me!’ 100 


Jnto me! but had the Vision 

Dome to him in beggar’s clothing, 

Come a mendicant imploring, 

Would he then have knelt adoring, 

Or have listened with derision, 

And have turned away with loath- 
ing? 


Thus his conscience put the ques- 
tion, 

Full of troublesome suggestion, 

As at length, with hurried pace, 

Towards his cell he turned his 
face, 110 

And beheld the convent bright 

With a supernatural light, 

Like a luminous cloud expanding 

Over floor and wall and ceiling. 


But he paused with: awe-struck 
feeling 

At the threshold of his door, 

For the Vision still was standing 

As he left it there before, 

When the convent bell appalling, 

From its belfry calling, calling, 120 

Summoved him to feed the poor. 

Through the long hour intervening 

It had waited his return, 

And he felt his bosom burn, 

Comprehending all the meaning, 

When the Blessed Vision said, 

'Hadst thou stayed, I must have 
Heda 


INTERLUDE 


ALL praised the Legend more or 
less ; 

Some liked the moral, some the 
verse; 


Some thought it better, and some 
worse 

Than other legends of the past; 

Until, with ill-concealed distress ~ 


.At all their cavilling, at last 


The Theologian gravely said: 

‘The Spanish proverb, then, is 
right ; 

Consult your friends on what you 
do, 

And one will say that it is white, 

And others say that it is red.’ 

And ‘Amen!’ quoth the Spanish 
Jew. 

‘Six stories told! We must have 
seven, 

A cluster like the Pleiades, 

And lo! it happens, as with these, 

That one is missing from our hea- 
ven. 

Where is the Landlord ? Bring 
him here ; 

Let the Lost Pleiad reappear.’ 


Thus the Sicilian cried, and went 

Forthwith to seek his missing star, 

But did not find him in the bar, 

A place that landlords most fre 
quent, 

Nor yet beside the kitchen fire, 

Nor up the stairs, nor in the hall; 

It was in vain to ask or call, 

There were no tidings of the Squire. 


So he came back with downcast 
head, 
Exclaiming: ‘Well, our bashful 
host 
Hath surely given up the ghost. 
Another proverb says the dead 
Can tell no tales; and that is true, 
It follows, then, that one of you 
Must tell a story in his stead. 
You must,’ he to the Student said, 
‘Who know so many of the best, 
And tell them better than the rest.‘ 


Straight, by these flattering words 
beguiled, 
The Student, happy as a child 


THES TUDEN TS SECOND TALE 


338 





When he is called a little man, 
Assumed the double task imposed: 
And without more ado unclosed 
His smiling lips, and thus began. 


THE STUDENT’ SECOND 
TALE 


THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE 


BARON CASTINE Of St. Castine 


Has left his chateau in the Pyre- 
nees, 

And sailed across the western 
seas. 

When he went away from his fair 
demesne 


The birds were building, the woods 
were green; 

And now the winds of winter blow 

Round the turrets of the old cha- 
teau, 

The birds are silent and unseen, 

The leaves lie dead in the ra- 


vine, 
And the Pyrenees are white with 
Snow. 10 


His father, lonely, old, and gray, 

Sits by the fireside day by day, 

Thinking ever one thought of care: 

Through the southern windows, 
narrow and tall, 

The sun shines into the ancient 
hall, 

And makes a glory round his hair. 

The house-dog, stretched beneath 
his chair, 

Groans in his sleep, as if in pain, 

Then wakes, and yawns,and sleeps 
again, 

So silent is if everywhere, — 20 

So silent you can hear the mouse 

Run and rummage along the beams 

Behind the wainscot of the wall: 

And the old man rouses from his 
dreams, 

And wanders restless through the 
house, 

As if he heard strange voices call 


His footsteps echo along the floor 
Of a distant passage, and pause 
awhile ; 
He is standing by an open door 
Looking long, with a sad, sweet 
smile, 30 
Into the room of his absent son. 
There is the bed on which he lay, 
There are the pictures bright and 


gay, 

Horses and hounds and sun-lit 
seas ; 

There are his powder-flask and 
gun, 

And his hunting-knives in shape 
of a fan; 

The chair by the window where he 
sat, 

With the clouded tiger-skin for a 
mat, 


Looking out on the Pyrenees, 

Looking out on Mount Marboré 4o 

And the Seven Valleys of Lave- 
dan. 

Ah me! he turns away and sighs; 

There is a mist before his eyes. 


At night, whatever the weather be, 

Wind or rain or starry heaven, 

Just as the clock is striking seven, 

Those who look from the windows 
see 

The village Curate, with lantern 
and maid, 

Come through the gateway from 


the park 
And cross the courtyard damp and 
dark, — 50 


A ring of light in a ring of shade. 


And now at the old man’s side he 
stands, 

His voice is cheery, his heart ex- 
pands, 

He gossips pleasantly, by the blaze 

Of the fire of fagots, about old 
days, 

And Cardinal Mazarin and the 
Fronde, 

And the Cardinal’s nieces fair and 
fond, 


336 





TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


And what they did, and what they | And the father paces to and fro 


said, 
When they heard his Eminence 
was dead. 


And after a pause the old man 
says, 60 

His mind still coming back again 

To the one sad thought that haunts 
his brain, 

‘Are there any tidings from over 
sea? 

Ah, why has that wild boy gone 
from me ?? 

And the Curate answers, looking 
down, 

Harmless and docile as a lamb, 

‘Young blood! young blood! It 
must so be!’ 

And draws from the pocket of his 
gown 

A handkerchief like an oriflamb, 

And wipes his spectacles, and they 
play 70 

Their little game of lansquenet 

In silence for an hour or so, 

Till the clock at nine strikes loud 
and clear 

From the village lying asleep be- 
low, 

And across the courtyard, into the 
dark 

Of the winding pathway in the 
park, 

Curate and lantern disappear, 

And darkness reigns in the old 
chateau. 


The ship has come back from over 


sea, 
She has been signalled from be- 
low, 80 


And into the harbor of Bordeaux 

She sails with her gailant com- 
pany. 

But among them is nowhere seen 

The brave young Baron of St. Cas- 
tine; 

He hath tarried behind, I ween, 

In the beautiful land of Acadie! 








Through the chambers of the oid 


chateau, 
Waiting, waiting to hear the hum 
Of wheels on the road that runs 


below, go 
Of servants hurrying here and 
there, 


The voice in the courtyard, the 
step on the stair, 

Waiting for some one wko doth 
not come! 

But letters there are, which the 
old man reads 

To the Curate, when he cumes at 
night, 

Word by word, as an acolyte 

Repeats his prayers and tells his 
beads ; 

Letters full of the rolling sea, 

Full of a young man’s joy to be 

Abroad in the world, alone and 


free; 100 

Full of adventures and wonderful 
scenes 

Of hunting the deer through for- 
ests vast 

In the royal grant of Pierre du 
Gast; 

Of nights in the tents of the Tarra- 
tines ; 


Of Madoecawando the Indian chief, 

And his daughters, glorious as 
queens, 

And beautiful beyond belief ; 

And so soft the tones of their 
native tongue, 

The words are not spoken, they 
are sung! 


And the Curate listens, and smil- 
ing says: 110 

‘Ah yes, dear friend! in our young 
days 

We should have liked to hunt the 
deer 

All day amid those forest scenes, 

And to sleep in the tents of the 
Tarratines ; 

But now it is better sitting here 


THE STUDENT’S SECOND TALE 


337 





Within four walls, and without the 
fear é 

Of losing our hearts to Indian 
queens; 

For man is fire and woman is tow, 

And the Somebody comes and be- 
gins to blow.’ 

Thena gleam of distrust and vague 
surmise 120 

Shines in the father’s gentle eyes, 

As fire-light on a window-pane 

Glimmers and vanishes again; 

But naught he answers; he only 
sighs, 

And for a moment bows his head; 

Then, as their custom is, they play 

Their little game of lansquenet, 

And another day is with the dead. 


Another day, and many a day 

And many a week and month de- 
part, 130 

When a fatal letter wings its way 

Across the sea, like a bird of prey, 

And strikes and tears the old man’s 
heart. 

Lo! the young Baron of St. Cas- 
tine, 

Swift as the wind is, and as wild, 

Has married a dusky Tarratine, 

Has married Madocawando’s 
child! 


The letter drops from the father’s 
hand; 

Though the sinews of his heart 
are wrung, 

He utters no ery, he breathes no 
prayer, 140 

No malediction falls from his 
tongue; 

But his stately figure, erect and 
grand, 

Bends and sinks like a column of 
sand 

In the whirlwind of his great de- 
spair. 

Dying, yes, 
breath 

Of parley at the door of death 

Is a blessing on his wayward son. 


dying! His latest 


Lower and lower on his breast 
Sinks his gray head; he is at rest; 
No longer he waits for any one. 150 


For many a year the old chfiteau 
Lies tenantless and desolate ; 
Rank grasses in the courtyard 
grow, 
About its gables caws the crow; 
Only the porter at the gate 
Is left to guard it, and to wait 
The coming of the rightful heir; 
No other life or sound is there ; 
No more the Curate comes at night; 
No more is seen the unsteady 
light, 160 
Threading the alleys of the park ; 
The windows of the hall are dark, 
The chambers dreary, cold, and 
bare! 


At length, at last, when the winter 
is past, 

And birds are building, and woods 
are green, 

With flying skirts is the Curate 
seen 

Speeding along the woodland way, 

Humming gayly, ‘No day is so 
long 

But it comes at last to vesper-song.’ 

He stops at the porter’s lodge to 
say 170 

That at last the Baron of St. Cas- 
tine 

Is coming home with his Indian 
queen, 

Is coming without a week’s delay ; 

And all the house must be swept 
and clean, 

And all things set in good array ! 

And the solemn porter shakes his 
head ; 

And the answer he makes is: 
‘Lackaday! 

We will see, as the blind man 
said!’ 


Alert since first the day began, 
The cock upon the _ village 
chureh 180 


338 





Looks northward from his airy 
perch, 

As if beyond the ken of man 

To see the ships come sailing on, 

And pass the Isle of Oléron, 

And pass the Tower of Cordouan. 


In the church below is cold in clay 

The heart that would have leaped 
for joy — 

O tender heart of truth and 
trust ! — 

To see the coming of that day; 

In the church below the lips are 
dust; 190 

Dust are the hands, and dust the 
feet 

That would have been so swift to 
meet 

The coming of that wayward boy. 


At night the front of the old cha- 
teau 

Is a blaze of light above and be- 
low; 

There’s a sound of wheels and 
hoofs in the street, 

A cracking of whips, and scamper 


of feet, 

Bells are ringing, and horns are 
blown, 

And the Baron hath come again to 
his own. 

The Curate is waiting in the 
hall, 200 


Most eager and alive of all 

To welcome the Baron and Baron. 
eSS 5; 

But his mind is full of vague dis- 
tress, 

For he hath read in Jesuit books 

Of those children of the wilder- 
ness, 

And now, good, simple man! he 
looks 

To see a painted savage stride 

Into the room, with shoulders 
bare, 

And eagle feathers in her hair, 

And around her a robe of panther’s 
hide. 210 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





Instead, he beholds with secret 
shame 

A form of beauty undefined, 

A loveliness without a name, 

Not of degree, but more of kind; 

Nor bold nor shy, nor short ner 
tall, 

But a new mingling of them all. 

Yes, beautiful beyond belief, 

Transfigured and transfused, he 
sees 

The lady of the Pyrenees, 

The daughter of the Indian 
chief. 220 

Beneath the shadow of her hair 

The gold-bronze color of the skin 

Seems lighted by a fire within, 

As whena burst of sunlight shines 

Beneath a sombre grove of 
pines, — 

A dusky splendor in the air. 

The two small hands, that now 
are pressed 

In his, seem made to be caressed, 

They lie so warm and soft and 


still, 
Like birds half hidden in a 
nest, 230 


Trustful, and innocent of ill, 

And ah! he cannot believe his 
ears 

When her melodious voice he hears 

Speaking his native Gascon 
tongue ; 

The words she utters seem to be 

Part of some poem of Goudouli, 

They are not spoken, they are 
sung! : 

And the Baron smiles, and says, 
‘You see, 

I told you but the simple truth; 

Ah, you may trust the eyes of 
youth !’ 240 


Down in the village day by day 

The people gossip in their way, 

And stare to see the Baroness 
pass 

On Sunday morning to early mass; 

And when she Kneeleth down t¢ 


pray, 


FINALE 


eke) 





They wonder, and whisper to- 
gether, and say 

‘Surely this is no heathen lass!? 

And in course of time they learn to 
bless 

The Baron and the Baroness. 


And in course of time the Curate 
learns 250 

A secret so dreadful, that by turns 

He is ice and fire, he freezes and 
burns. 

The Baron at confession hath said, 

That though this woman be his 
wife, 

He hath wed her as the Indians 
wed, 

He hath bought her for a gun and 
a knife! 

And the Curate replies: ‘O pro- 
fligate, 

O Prodigal Son! return once more 

To the open arms and the open 


door 
Of the Church, or ever it be too 
late. 260 
Thank God, thy father did not 
live 


To see what he could not forgive ; 

On thee, so reckless and perverse, 

He left his blessing, not his curse. 

But the nearer the dawn the 
darker the night, 

And by going wrong all things 
come right; 

Things have been mended that 
were worse, 

And the worse, the nearer they 
are to mend. 

For the sake of the living and the 
dead, 

Thou shalt be wed as Christians 
wed, 270 

And all things come to a happy 
end.’ 


O sun, that followest the night, 

In yon blue sky, serene and pure, 
And pourest thine impartial light 
Alike on mountain and on moor, 
Pause for a moment in thy course, 


And bless the bridegroom and the 
bride! 

O Gave, that from thy hidden 
source 

In yon mysterious mountain-side 

Pursuest thy wandering way 


alone, 280 
And leaping down its steps of 
stone, 


Along the meadow-lands demure 

Stealest away to the Adour, 

Pause for a moment in thy course 

To bless the bridegroom and the 
bride ! 


The choir is singing the matin 
song, 

The doors of the church are 
opened wide, 

The people crowd, and press, and 


throng 

To see the bridegroom and the 
bride. 

They enter and pass along the 
Nave; 290 

They stand upon the father’s 
grave ; 

The bells are ringing soft and 
slow ; 

The living above and the dead be- 
low 

Give their blessing on one and 
twain ; 


The warm wind blows from the 
hills of Spain, 

The birds are building, the leaves 
are green, 

And Baron Castine of St. Castine 

Hath come at last to his own again, 


FINALE 
‘Nune plaudite!’? the student 
eried, 
When he had finished ; ‘now ap. 
plaud, 


As Roman actors used to say 

At the conclusion of a play: 

And rose, and spread his hands 
abroad, 


340 





TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


es 


And smiling bowed from side to | All left at once the pent-up room, 


side, 
As one who bears the palm away. 


_And generous was the applause 
and loud, 

But less for him than for the sun, 

That even as the tale was done 

Burst from its canopy of cloud, 

And lit the landscape with the 
blaze 

Of afternoon on autumn days, 

And filled the room with light, and 
made 

The fire of logs a painted shade. 


A sudden wind from out the west 

Blew all its trumpets loud and 
shrill; 

The windows rattled with 

blast, 

oak-trees 

passed, 

And straight, as if by fear pos- 
sessed, 

The cloud encampment on the hill 

Broke up, and fluttering flag and 
tent 

Vanished into the firmament, 

And down the valley fled amain 

The rear of the retreating rain. 


the 


The shouted as it 


Only far up in the blue sky 

A mass of clouds, like drifted 
snow 

Suffused with a faint Alpine glow, 

Was heaped together, vast and 
high, 

On which a shattered rainbow 
hung, 

Not rising like the ruined arch 

Of some aerial aqueduct, 

But like a roseate garland plucked 

From an Olympian god, and flung 

Aside in his triumphal march. 


Like prisoners from their dungeon 
gloom, 

Like birds escaping from a snare, 

Like school-boys at the hour of 
vlay, 


And rushed into the open air; 
And no more tales were told that 
day. 


PART THIRD 
PRELUDE 


THE evening came; the golden 
vane 
A moment in the sunset glanced, 
Then darkened, and then gleamed 
again, 
As from the east the moon ad- 
vanced 
And touched it with a softer light; 
While underneath, with flowing 
mane, 
Upon the sign the Red Horse 
_ pranced, 
And galloped forth into the night. 


But brighter than the afternoon 

That followed the dark day of 
rain, 10 

And brighter than the golden 
vane 

That glistened in the rising moon, 

Within, the ruddy fire - light 
gleamed ; 

And every separate window-pane, 

Backed by the outer darkness, 


showed 

A mirror, where the flamelets 
gleamed 

And flickered to and fro, and 
seemed 


A bonfire lighted in the road. 


Amid the hospitable glow, 

Like an old actor on the stage, 29 
With the uncertain voice of age, 
The singing chimney chanted low 
The homely songs of long ago. 


The voice that Ossian heard of 
yore, 

When midnight winds were in hig 
hall; 


PRELUDE 


a eee 


A ghostly and appealing call, 

A sound of days that are no more! 

And dark as Ossian sat the Jew, 

And listened to the sound, and 
knew, 

The passing of the airy hosts, 30 

The gray and misty cloud of 
ghosts 

In their interminable flight ; 

And listening muttered in his 
beard, 

With accent indistinct and weird, 

‘Who are ye, children of the 
Night?’ 


Beholding his mysterious face, 
‘Tell me,’ the gay Sicilian said, 


‘Why was it that in breaking 
bread 

At supper, you bent down your 
head 

And, musing, paused a little 
space, 40 


As one who says a silent grace?’ 


The Jew replied, with solemn air, 

*I said the Manichzean’s prayer. 

It was his faith, — perhaps is 
mine, — 

That life in all its forms is one, 

And that its secret conduits run 

Unseen, but in unbroken line, 

From the great fountain-head di- 
vine 

Through man and beast, through 
grain and grass. 

Howe’er we struggle, strive, and 


cry, 50 
From death there can be no es- 
cape, . 


And no escape from life, alas! 
Because we cannot die, but pass 
From one into another shape: 
It is but into life we die. 


‘Therefore the Manichzan said 

This simple prayer on breaking 
bread, 

Lest he with hasty hand or knife 

Might wound the incarcerated 
life, 


341 


The soul in things that we call 


dead: 60 
“TI did not reap thee, did not bind 
thee, 


I did not thrash thee, did not 
grind thee, 

Nor did I in the oven bake thee! 

It was not I, it was another 

Did these things unto thee, O bro- 
ther ; 

I only have thee, hold thee, break 
thee}??? 


‘That birds have souls I can con- 


cede,’ 

The Poet cried, with glowing 
cheeks; 

‘The flocks that from their beds 
of reed 


Uprising north or southward fly, 
And flying write upon the sky 7: 
The biforked letter of the Greeks, 
As hath been said by Rucellai; 
All birds that sing or chirp or ery, 
Even those migratory bands, 

The minor poets of the air, 

The plover, peep, and sanderling, 
That hardly can be said to sing, 
But pipe along the barren sands, — 
All these have souls akin to ours; 
So hath the lovely race of flow- 


ers: 81 
Thus much I grant, but nothing 
more. 


The rusty hinges of a door 
Are not alive because they creak ; 


This chimney, with its dreary 
roar, 

These rattling windows, do not 
speak !? 

‘To me they speak,’ the Jew re- 
plied; 

‘And in the sounds that sink and 
soar, 


T hear the voices of a tide 
That breaks upon an unknown 
shore!’ go 


Here the Sicilian interfered: 
‘That was your dream, then, as 
you dozed 


342, 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





A moment since, with eyes half- 
closed, 

And murmured something in your 
beard.’ 

The Hebrew smiled, and an- 
swered, *‘ Nay; 


Not that, but something very 
near ; 

Like, and yet not the same, may 
seem 

The vision of my waking dream; 

Before it wholly dies away, 99 


Listen to me, and you shall hear.’ 


THE SPANISH JEW’S TALE 


AZRAEL 

KING SOLOMON, before his palace 
gate 

At evening, on the pavement tes- 
sellate 

Was walking with a stranger from 
the East, 

Arrayed in rich attire as for a 
feast, 


The mighty Runjeet - Sing, a 

learned man, 

And Rajah of the realms of Hindo- 
stan. 

And as they walked the guest be- 


came aware 


Of a white figure in the twilight 
air, 

Gazing intent, as one who with 
surprise 

His form and features seemed to 
recognize ; 10 

And in a whisper to the king he 
said: 


‘What is yon shape, that, pallid as 
the dead, 

Is watching me, as if he sought to 
trace 

In the dim light the features of 
my face?’ 


The king looked, and replied: ‘I 
know him well; 
It is the Angel men call Azrael, 


‘Tis the Death Angel; what hast 
thou to fear ?’ 

And the guest answered: ‘Lest he 
should come near, 

And speak to me, and take away 


my breath! 
Save me from Azrael, save me 
from death! 20 


O king, that hast dominion o’er 
the wind, 

Bid it arise and bear me hence ta 
Ind.’ 


The king gazed upward at the 
cloudless sky, 

Whispered a word, and raised his 
hand on high, 

And lo! the signet-ring of chryso- 
prase 

On his uplifted finger seemed to 
blaze 

With hidden fire, and rushing from 
the west 

There came a mighty wind, and 
seized the guest 

And lifted him from earth, and on 
they passed, 

His shining garments streaming 


in the blast, 30 

A silken banner o’er the walls up- 
reared, 

A purple cloud, that gleamed and 
disappeared. 

Then said the Angel, smiling: ‘ If 
this man 

Be Rajah Runjeet-Sing of Hindo- 
stan, 


Thou hast done well in listening 
to his prayer; 

I was upon my way to seek him 
there.’ 


INTERLUDE 


‘O EDREHI, forbear to-night 

Your ghostly legends of affright, 

And let the Talmud rest in peace; 

Spare us your dismal tales of death 

That almost take away one’s 
breath ; 

So doing, may your tribe increase! 


THE POET’S »sTALE 


343 





Thus the Sicilian said; then went 
And on the spinet’s rattling keys 
Played Marianina, like a breeze 
From Naples and the Southern 
seas, 
That brings us the delicious scent 
Of citron and of orange trees, 
And memories of soft days of ease 
At Capri and Amalfi spent. 


‘Not so,’ the eager Poet said; 

‘ At least, not so before I tell 

The story of my Azrael, 

An angel mortal as ourselves, 

Which in an ancient tome I found 

Upon a convent’s dusty shelves, 

Chained with an iron chain, and 
bound 

In parchment, and with clasps of 
brass, 

Lest from its prison, some dark 
day, 

Tt might be stolen or stealaway, 

While the good friars were singing 
mass. 


*It is a tale of Charlemagne, 

When like a thunder-cloud, that 
lowers : 

And sweeps from mountain-crest 
to coast, . 

With lightning flaming through 
its showers, 

He swept across the Lombard 
plain, 

Beleaguering with his warlike train 

Pavia, the country’s pride and 
boast, 

The City of the Hundred Towers.’ 


Thus heralded the tale began, 
And thus in sober measure ran. 
THE POET’S TALE 
CHARLEMAGNE 
OLGER the Dane and Desiderio, 


King of the Lombards, on a lofty 
tower 


Stood gazing northward o’er the 
rolling plains, 

League after league of harvests, 
to the foot 

Of the snow-crested Alps, and saw 
approach 

A mighty army, thronging all the 
roads 

That ledintothe city. Andthe King 

Said unto Olger, who had passed 
his youth 

As hostage at the court of France, 


and knew 
The Emperor’s form and face: ‘Is 
Charlemagne 10 


Among that host?’ 
answered: ‘ No.’ 


And Olger 


And still the innumerable multi- 
tude 

Flowed onward and increased, un- 
til the King 

Cried in amazement: 
Charlemagne 

Is coming in the midst of all these 
knights !’ 

And Olger answered slowly: ‘No; 
not yet; 


‘Surely 


He will not come so soon.’ Then 
much disturbed 
King Desiderio asked: ‘What 


shall we do, 
If he approach with a still greater 


army?’ 
And Olger answered: ‘ When he 
shall appear, 20 


You will behold what manner of 
man he is ; 

But what will then befall us I 
know not.’ 


Then came the guard that never 
knew repose, 

The Paladins of France; and at 
the sight 

The Lombard King o’ercome with 
terror cried: 

‘ This must be Charlemagne!’ and 
as before 

Did Olger answer: ‘ No; not yet, 
not yet.’ 


344 





And then appeared in panoply 
complete 

The Bishops and the Abbots and 
the Priests 

Of the imperial chapel, and the 


Counts ; 30 
And Desiderio could no more en- 
dure 


The light of day, nor yet encoun- 
ter death, 

But sobbed aloud and said: ‘ Let 
us go down 


And hide us in the bosom of the 
earth, 
’ Far from the sight and anger of a 
foe 
So terrible as this!’ And Olger 
said: 


* When you behold the harvests in 
the fields 

Shaking with fear, the Po and the 
Ticino - 

Lashing the city walls with iron 
waves, 

Then may you know that Charle- 
magne is come.’ 

And even as he spake, 
northwest, 

Lo! there uprose a black and 
threatening cloud, 

Out of whose bosom flashed the 
light of arms 

Upon the people pent up in the 
city ; 

A light more terrible than any 
darkness, 

And Charlemagne appeared ;—a 
Man of Iron! 


40 
in the 


His helmet was of iron, and his 
gloves 

Of iron,and his breastplate and 
his greaves 

And tassets were of iron, and his 
shield. 

In ‘his left hand he held an iron 
spear, 50 

In his right hand his sword invin- 
cible. 

The horse he rode on had the 
strength of iron. 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





And color of iron. All who went 
before him, 

Beside him and behind him, hig 
whole host, 

Were armed with iron, and thei 
hearts within them 

Were stronger than the armor 
that they wore. 

The fields and all the roads were 
filled with iron, 

And points of iron glistened in the 
sun 

And shed a terror through the city 
streets. 


This at a single glance Olger the 
Dane 6a 

Saw from the tower, and turning 
to the King 

Exclaimed in_ haste: 
this is the man 

You looked for with such eager 
ness!’ and then 

Fell as one dead at Desiderio* 


*‘ Behold’ 


feet. 
INTERLUDE 

WELL pleased all listened to tht 
tale, 

That drew, the Student said, its 
pith 

And marrow from the ancient. 
myth 


Of some one with an iron flail; 

Or that portentous Man of Brass 

Hepheestus made in days of yore, 

Who stalked about the Cretan 
shore, 

And saw the ships appear and 
pass, 

And threw stones at the Argo- 
nauts, 

Being filled with indiscriminate 
ire 

That tangled and perplexed his 
thoughts ; 

But, like a hospitable host, 

When strangers landed on the 
coast, 


THE STUDENT'S TALE 





Heated himself red-hot with fire, 

And hugged them in his arms, and 
pressed 

Their bodies to his burning breast. 


The Poet answered: ‘ No, not 
thus 

The legend rose; it sprang at 
first 


Out of the hunger and the thirst 

In all men for the marvellous. 

And thus it filled and satisfied 

The imagination of mankind, 

And this ideal to the mind 

Was truer than historic fact. 

Fancy enlarged and multiplied 

The terrors of the awful name 

Of Charlemagne, till he became 

Armipotent in every act, 

And, clothed in mystery, appeared 

Not what men saw, but what they 
feared. 


‘ Besides, unless my memory fail, 

Your some one with an iron flail 

Is not an ancient myth at all, 

But comes much later on the scene 

As Talus in the Faerie Queene, 

The iron groom of Artegall, 

Who threshed out falsehood and 
deceit, 

And truth upheld, and righted 
wrong, 

And was, as is the swallow, fleet, 

And as the lion is, was strong.’ 


The Theologian said: ‘ Perchance 

Your chronicler in writing this 

Had in his mind the Anabasis, 

Where Xenophon describes the 
advance 

Of Artaxerxes to the fight ; 

At first the low gray cloud of 
dust, 

And then a blackness o’er the 
fields 

As of a passing thunder-gust, 

Then flash of brazen armor bright, 

And ranks of men, and spears up- 
thrust, 


345 





Bowmen and troops with wicker 
shields, 

And cavalry equipped in white, 

And chariots ranged in front of 
these 

With scythes upon their axle 
trees.’ 


To this the Student answered: 
‘Well, 
T also have a tale to tell 


Of Charlemagne; a tale that 
throws 

A softer light, more tinged with 
rose, 


Than your grim apparition cast 

Upon the darkness of the past. 

Listen, and hear in English rhyme 

What the good Monk of Laures- 
heim 

Gives as the gossip of his time, 

In medizval Latin prose,’ 


THE STUDENT'S TALE 
EMMA AND EGINHARD 


WHEN Alcuin taught the sons of 
Charlemagne, 

In the free schools of Aix, how 
kings should reign, 

And with them taught the children 
of the poor 

How subjects should be patient 
and endure, 

He touched the lips of some, as 
best befit, 

With honey from the hives of Holy 
Writ; 

Others intoxicated with the wine 

Of ancient history, sweet but less 
divine ; 

Some with the wholesome fruits of 
grammar fed : 

Others with mysteries of the stars 

overhead, 10 

hang suspended in the 

vaulted sky 

Like lamps in some fair palace 
vast and high, 


That 


346 


In sooth, it was a pleasant sight 
tosee. 

That Saxon monk, with hood and 
rosary, 

With inkhorn at his belt, and pen 
and book, 

And mingled love and reverence 
in his look, 

Or hear the cloister and the court 
repeat 

The measured footfalls of his san- 
dalled feet, 

Or watch him with the pupils of 
his school, 

Gentle of speech, but absolute of 
rule. 20 


Among them, always earliest in 
his place, 

Was Eginhard, a youth of Frank- 
ish race, 

Whose face was bright with flashes 
that forerun 

The splendors of a yet unrisen 
sun. 

To him all things were possible, 
and seemed 

Not what he had accomplished, but 
had dreamed, 

And what were tasks to others 
were his play, 

The pastime of an idle holiday. 


Smaragdo, Abbot of St. Michael’s, 
said, 

With many a shrug and shaking 
of the head, 30 

Surely some demon musf possess 
the lad, 

Who showed more wit than ever 
school-boy had, 

And learned his Trivium thus with- 
out the rod; 

But Alcuin said it was the grace 
of God. 


Thus he grew up, in Logie point- 
device, 

Perfect in Grammar, and in Rhet- 
oric nice; 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





Science of Numbers, Geometri¢ 
art, 

And lore of Stars, and Music knew 
by heart: 

A Minnesinger, long before the 
times 

Of those who sang their love in 
Suabian rhymes. 40 


The Emperor, when he heard this 
good report 

Of Eginhard much buzzed about 
the court, 

Said to himself, 
seems to be 

Purposely sent into the world for 
me; 

He shall become my scribe, and 
shall be schooled 

In all the arts whereby the world 
is ruled.’ 

Thus did the gentle Eginhard at- 
tain 

To honor in the court of Charle- 
magne ; 

Became the sovereign’s favorite, 
his right hand, 

So that his fame was great in ay 
the land, 

And all men loved him for his 
modest grace 

And comeliness of figure and of 
iace, 

An inmate of the palace, yet re- 
cluse, 

A man of books, yet sacred from 
abuse 

Among the arméd knights with 
spur on heel, 

The tramp of horses and the clang 
of steel: 

And as the Emperor promised he 
was schooled 

In ail the arts by which the world 
is ruled. 

But the one art supreme, whose 
law is fate, 

The Emperor never dreamed of till 
too late. Od 


‘This stripling 


THE STUDENT’S TALE 


347 





Home from her convent to the 
palace came 

The lovely Princess Emma, whose 
sweet name, 

Whispered by seneschal or sung 
by bard, 


Had often touched the soul of 
Eginhard. 

He saw her from his window, as in 
state J 

She came, by knights attended 
through the gate ; 

He saw her at the banquet of that 


day, 

Fresh a3 the morn, and beautiful 
as May; 

He saw her in the garden, as she 
strayed 

~’ Among the flowers of summer et 

her maid, ’ 

And said to him, ‘O Eginhard, ie 
close 

The meaning and the mystery of 
the rose ;’ 


And trembling he made answer: 
‘In good sooth, | 

Its mystery is love, its meaning 
youth!’ 


How can I tell the signals and the 
signs 

By which one heart another heart 
divines ? 

’ How can I tell the many OE 

ways 

By which it keeps the octet it be- 
trays? 


O mystery of love! O strange ro- 


mance! 

Among the Peers and Paladins of 
France, 80 

Shining in steel,and prancing on 
gay steeds, 

Noble by birth, yet nobler by great 
deeds, 

The Princess Emma had no words 
nor looks 


But for this clerk, this man of 
thought and books. 


The summer passed, the autumn 
came; the stalks 

Of lilies blackened in the garden 
walks; 

The leaves fell, russet-golden and 
blood-red, 

Love - letters thought the poet 
fancy-led, 

Or Jove descending in a shower of 
gold 

Into the lap of Danaé of old; — ga 

For poets cherish many a strange 
conceit, 

And love transmutes all nature by 
its heat. 

No more the garden lessons, nor 
the dark 

And hurried meetings in the twi- 
light park ; 

But now the studious lamp, and 
the delights 

Of firesides in the silent winter 
nights, 

And watching from his window 
hour by hour 

The light that burned in Princess 
Emma’s tower. 


At length one night, while musing 
by the fire, 

O’ercome at last by his insane de- 
sire, — 100 

For whai will reckless love not do 
and dare ? 

He crossed the court, and climbed 
the winding stair, 

With some feigned message in the 
Emperor’s name; 

But when he to the lady’s presence 
came 

He knelt down at her feet, until 
she laid 

Her hand upon him, like a naked 
blade, 

And whispered in his ear: 
Sir Knight, 

To my heart’s level, -O my heart’s 
delight.’ 


‘ Arise, 


And there he lingered till the crow. 
ing cock, 


348 


The Alectryon of the farmyard and 
the flock, 110 

Sang his aubade with lusty voice 
and clear, 

To tell the sleeping world that 
dawn was near. 

And then they parted; but at part- 
ing, lo! 

®™hey saw the palace courtyard 
white with snow, 

And, placid as a nun, the moon on 
high 

Gazing from cloudy cloisters of 
the sky. 

‘Alas!’ he said, ‘how hide the 
fatal line 

Of footprints leading from thy door 
to mine, 

And none returning!’ 
tle knew 

What woman’s wit, when put to 
proof, can do! 120 


Ah, he lit- 


That night the Emperor, sleepless 
with the cares 

And troubles that attend on state 
affairs, 

Had risen before the dawn, and 
musing gazed 

Into the silent night, as one 
amazed 

To see the calm that reigned o’er 
all supreme, 

When his own reign was but a 

’ troubled dream. 

The moon lit up the gables capped 
with snow, 

And the white roofs, and half the 
court below, 

And he beheld a form, that seemed 
to cower 

Beneath a burden, come from 
Emma’s tower, — 130 

A woman, who upon her shoulders 
bore 

Clerk Eginhard to his own private 
door, 

And then returned in haste, but 
still essayed 

To tread the footprints she herself 
had made ; 





TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





And as she passed across the 
lighted space, 

The Emperor saw his daughter 
Emma’s face! 


He started not; he did not speak 
or moan, 

But seemed as one who hath been 
turned to stone; 

And stood there like a statue, nor 
awoke 

Out of his trance of pain, till morn- 
ing broke, 140 

Till the stars faded, and the moon 
went down, 

And o’er the towers and steeples 
of the town 

Came the gray daylight; then the 
sun, who took 

The empire of the world with soy- 
ereign look, 

Suffusing with a soft and golden 
glow 

All the dead landscape in its 
shroud of snow, 

Touching with flame the tapering 
chapel spires, 

Windows and roofs, and smoke of 
household fires, 

And kindling park and palace as 
he came; 

The stork’s nest on the chimney 
seemed in flame. 150 

And thus he stood till Eginhard 
appeared, ; 

Demure’ and modest with his 
comely beard 

And flowing flaxen tresses, come 
to ask, 

As was his wont, the day’s ap 
pointed task. 

The Emperor looked upon him 
with a smile, 

And gently said: 
yet a while; 

This hour my council meets upon 
some great ‘ 

And very urgent business of the 
state. 

Come back within the hour. 
thy return 


‘My son, wait 


On 


THE STUDENT'S TALE 





The work appointed for thee shalt 
thou learn.’ 160 


Having dismissed this gallant 
Troubadcur, 

He summoned straight his council, 
and secure 

And steadfast in his purpose, from 
the throne 

All the adventure of the night 
made known; 

Then asked for sentence ; and with 
eager breath 

Some answered banishment, and 
others death. 


Then spake the king: ‘ Your sen- 
tence is not mine; 

Life is the gift of God, and is di- 
vine; 

Nor from these palace walls shall 
one depart 

Who carries such a secret in his 
heart; 170 

My better judgment points another 
way. 

Good Alcuin, I remember how one 
day 

Whenmy Pepinoasked you, What 
are men?” — 

You wrote upon his tablets with 
your pen, 

“Guests of the grave and travellers 
that pass!” 

This being true of all men, we, 
alas! 

Being all fashioned of the selfsame 
dust, 

Let us be merciful as well as just; 

This passing traveller who hath 
stolen away 

The brightest jewel of my crown 


to-day, 180 

Shall of himself the precious gem 
restore; 

By giving it, I make it mine once 
more. 

Dver those fatal footprints I will 
throw 

My ermine mantle like another 
snow.’ 








349 


Then Eginhard was summoned to 
the hall, 

And entered, andin presence of 
them all, 

The Emperor said: ‘My son, for 
thou to me 

Hast been a son, and evermore 
shalt be, 

Long hast thou served thy sover- 
eign, and thy zeal 

Pleads to me with importunate 
appeal, 190 

While I have been forgetful to 
requite 

Thy service and affection as was 
right. 

But now the hour is come, when I, 
thy Lord, 

Will crown thy love with such 
supreme reward, 

A gift so precious kings have 
striven in vain 

To win it from the hands of 
Charlemagne.’ 


Then sprang the portals of the 
chamber wide, 

And Princess Emma entered, in 
the pride 

Of birth and beauty, that in part 
overcame 

The conscious terror and the blush 
of shame. 200 

And the good Emperor rose up 
from his throne, 

And taking her white hand within 
his own 

Placed it in Eginhard’s, ana said: 
*My son, 

This is the gift thy constant zeal 
hath won ; 

Thus I repay the royal debt I owe, 

And cover up the footprints in the 
snow.’ 


INTERLUDE 


THUS ran the Student’s pleasant 
rhyme 

Of Eginhard and love and youth; 

Some doubted its historic truth, 


35° 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE. INN 





But while they doubted, ne’erthe- 
less 

Saw in it gleams of truthfulness, 

And thanked the Monk of Laures- 
heim. 


This they discussed in various 
mood ; 

Then in the silence that ensued 

Was heard a sharp and sudden 
sound 

As of a bowstring snapped in air; 

And the Musician with a bound 

Sprang up in terror from his chair, 

And for a moment listening stood, 

Then strode across the room, and 
found 

His dear, his darling violin 

Still lying safe asleep within 

Tts little cradle, like a child 

That gives a sudden ery of pain, 

And wakes to fall asleep again; 

And as he looked at it and smiled, 

By the uncertain light beguiled, 

Despair! two strings were broken 
in twain. 


While all lamented and made 
moan, 

With many a sympathetic word 

As if the loss had been their own, 

Deeming the tones they might 
have heard 

Sweeter than they had heard be- 
fore, 

They saw the Landlord at the door, 

The missing man, the portly 
Squire! 

He had not entered, but he stood 

With both arms full of seasoned 
wood, 

To feed the much-devouring fire, 

That like a lion in a cage 

Lashed its long tail and roared 
with rage. 


The missing man! Ah, yes, they 
said, 

Missing, but whither had he fled? 

Where had he hidden himself 
away? 





No farther than the barn or shed; 

He had not hidden himself, nor 
fled; 

How should he pass the rainy day 

But in his barn with hens and hay, 

Or mending harness, cart, or sled? 

Now, having come, he needs must 
stay 

And tell his tale as well as they. 


The Landlord answered only: 
‘ These 

Are logs from the dead apple-trees 

Of the old orchard planted here 

By the first Howe of Sudbury. 

Nor oak nor maple has so clear 

A flame, or burns so quietly, 

Or leaves an ash so clean and 
white ;’ 

Thinking by this to put aside 

The impending tale that terrified ; 

When suddenly, to his delight, 

The Theologian interposed, 

Saying that when the door was 
closed, 

And they had stopped that draft; 
of co.d, 

Unpleasant night air, he proposed 

To tell a tale world-wide apart 

From that the Student had just 
told; 

World-wide apart, and vet akin, 

As showing that the human heart 

Beats on forever as of old, 

As well beneath the snow-white 
fold 

Of Quaker kKerchief, as within 

Sendal or silk or cloth of gold, 

And without preface would begin. 


And then the clamorous clock 
struck eight, 

Deliberate, with sonorous chime 

Slow measuring out the march of 
time, 

Like some grave Consul of Old 
Rome 

In Jupiter’s temple driving home 

The nails that marked the year and 
date. 

Thus interrupted in his rhyme, 


THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE 35% 








The Theologian needs must wait; | When ceased the little carillon 
But quoted Horace, where he sings | To herald from its wooden tower 
The dire Necessity of things, The important transit of the hour, 
That drives into the roofs sublime | The Theologian hastened on, 

Of new-built houses of the great Content to be allowed at last 

The adamantine nails of Fate. To sing his Idyl of the Past. 


THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE 


ELIZABETH 


I 


‘An, how short are the days! How soon the night overtakes us! 

In the old country the twilight is longer; but here in the forest 
Suddenly comes the dark, with hardly a pause in its coming, 

Hardly a moment between the two lights, the day and the lamplight ; 
Yet how grand is the winter! How spotless the snow is, and perfect !? 


Thus spake Elizabeth Haddon at night-fall to Hannah the housemaid, 
As in the farm-house kitchen, that served for kitchen and parlor, 
By the window she sat with her work, and looked on the landscape 
White as the great white sheet that Peter saw in his vision, 


By the four corners let dcwn and descending out of the heavens. 10 
Covered with snow were the forests of pine, and the fields and the 
meadows. 


Nothing was dark but the sky, and the distant Delaware flowing 
Down from its native hills, a peaceful and bountiful river. 


Then with a smile on her lips made answer Hannah the housemaid: 

‘Beautiful winter! yea, the winter is beautiful, surely, 

If one could only walk like a fly with one’s feet on the ceiling. 

But the great Delaware River is not like the Thames, as we saw it 

Out of our upper windows in Rotherhithe Street in the Borough, 

Crowded with masts and sails of vessels coming and going; 

Here there is nothing but pines, with patches of snow on their 
branches. 20 

There is snow in the air, and see! it is falling already ; 

All the roads will be blocked, and I pity Joseph to-morrow, 

Breaking his way through the drifts, with his sled and oxen; and then, 
too, 

How in all the world shall we get to Meeting on First-Day?’ 


But Elizabeth checked her, and answered, mildly reproving: 
‘Surely the Lord will provide; for unto the snow He sayeth, 
Be thou on the earth, the Lord sayeth; He it is 
Giveth snow like wool, like ashes scatters the hoar-frost.’ 

So she folded her work and laid it away in her basket. 


Meanwhile Hannah the housemaid had closed and fastened the shut- 
ters, 39 
Spread the cloth, and lighted the lamp on the table, and placed there 


352 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


_—— 


Plates and cups from the dresser, the brown rye loaf, and the butter 

Fresh from the dairy, and then, protecting her hand with a holder, 

Took from the crane in the chimney the steaming and simmering 
kettle, 

Poised it aloft in the air, and filled up the earthen teapot, 

Made in Delft, and adorned with quaint and wonderful figures. 


Then Elizabeth said, ‘Lo! Joseph is long on his errand. 
I have sent him away with a hamper of food and cf clothing 
For the poor in the village. A good lad and cheerful is Joseph; 
In the right place is his heart, and his hand is ready and willing.’ 40 


Thus in praise of her servant she spake, and Hannah the housemaid 
Laughed with her eyes, as she listened, but governed her tongue, and 
was silent, 
While her mistress went on: ‘ The house is far from the village: 
We should be lonely here, were it not for Friends that in passing 
Sometimes tarry o’ernight, and make us glad by their coming.’ 


Thereupon answered Hannah the housemaid, the thrifty, the fru- 
gal: 
‘Yea, they come and they tarry, as if thy house were a tavern ; 
Open to all are its doors, and they come and go like the pigeons 
In and out of the holes of the pigeon-house over the hayloft, 
Cooing and smoothing their feathers and basking themselves in the 
sunshine.’ 50 


But in meekness of spirit, and calmly, Elizabeth answered: 
* All I have is the Lord’s, not mine to give or withhold it; 
I but distribute his gifts to the poor, and to those of his people 
Who in journeyings often surrender their lives to his service. 
His, not mine, are the gifts, and only so far can I make them 
Mine, as in giving I add my heart to whatever is given. 
Therefore my excellent father first built this house in the clearing ; 
Though he came not himself, I came; for the Lord was my guidance, 
Leading me here for this service. We must not grudge, then, to others 
Ever the cup of cold water, or crumbs that fall from our table.’ 60 


Thus rebuked, for a season was silent the penitent housemaid ; 
And Elizabeth said in tones even sweeter and softer : 
‘Dost thou remember, Hannah, the great May-Meeting in London, 
When I was still a child, how we sat in the silent assembly, 
Waiting upon the Lord in patient and passive submission ? 
No one spake, till at length a young man, a stranger, John Estaugh, 
Moved by the Spirit, rose, as if he were John the Apostle, 
Speaking such words of power that they bowed our hearts, as a strong 
wind ; 
3ends the grass of the fields, or grain that is ripe for the sickle. 
Thoughts of him to-day have been oft borne inward upon me, 7a 
Wherefore I do not know; but strong is the feeling within me 
That once more I shall see a face I have never forgotten.’ 


THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE 353 





II 


E’en as she spake they heard the musical jangle of sleigh-bells, 

First far off, with a dreamy sound and faint in the distance, 

Then growing hearer and louder, and turning into the farmyard, 

Till it stopped at the door, with sudden creaking of runners. 

Then there were voices heard as of two men talking together, 

And to herself, as she listened, upbraiding said Hannah the house- 
maid, 

‘It is Joseph come back, and I wonder what stranger is with him.’ 


Down from its nail she took and lighted the great tin lantern 80 
Pierced with holes, and round, and roofed like the top of a lighthouse, 
And went forth to receive the coming guest at the doorway, 

Casting into the dark a network of glimmer and shadow 

Over the falling snow, the yellow sleigh, and the horses, 

And the forms of men, snow-covered, looming gigantic. 

Then giving Joseph the lantern, she entered the house with the stran- 
ger. 

Youthful he was and tall, and his cheeks aglow with the night air; 

And as he entered, Elizabeth rose, and, going to meet him, 

As if an unseen power had announced and preceded his presence, 

And he had come as one whose coming had long been expected, 90 

Quietly gave him her hand, and said, ‘Thou art welcome, John 
Estaugh.’ 

And the stranger replied, with staid and quiet behavior, 

*Dost thou remember me still, Elizabeth? After so many 

Years have passed, it seemeth a wonderful thing that I find thee. 

Surely the hand of the Lord conducted me here to thy threshold. 

For as I journeyed along, and pondered alone and in silence 

On his ways, that are past finding out, I saw in the snow-mist, 

Seemingly weary with travel, a wayfarer, who by the wayside 

Paused and waited. Forthwith I remembered Queen Candace’s 
eunuch, 

How on the way that goes down from Jerusalem unto Gaza, - 100 

Reading Esaias the Prophet, he journeyed, and spake unto Philip, 

Praying him to come up and sit in his chariot with him. 

So I greeted the man, and he mounted the sledge beside me, 

And as we talked on the way he told me of thee and thy homestead, 

How, being led by the light of the Spirit, that never deceiveth, 

Full of zeal for the work of the Lord, thuu hadst come to this country. 

And I remembered thy name, and thy father and mother in England, 

And on my journey have stopped to see thee, Elizabeth Haddon, 

Wishing to strengthen thy hand in the labors of love thou art doing.’ 


And Elizabeth answered with confident voice, and serenely 11g 
Looking into his face with her innocent eyes as she answered. 
‘Surely the hand of the Lord is in it; his Spirit hath led thee 
Out of the darkness and storm to the light and peace of my fireside.’ 


Then, with stamping of feet the door was opened, and Joseph 
Entered, bearing the lantern, and, carefully blowing the light out, 


354 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





Hung it up on its nail, and all sat down to their supper; 
For underneath that roof was no distinction of persons, 
But one family only, one heart, one hearth, and one household. 


When the supper was ended they drew their chairs to the fireplace, 
Spacious, open-hearted, profuse of flame and of firewood, 126 
Lord of forests unfelled, and not a gleaner of fagots, 

Spreading its arms to embrace with inexhaustible bounty 
All who fled from the cold, exultant, laughing at winter! 
Only Hannah the housemaid was busy in clearing the table, 
Coming and going, and bustling about in closet and chamber. 


Then Elizabeth told her story again to John Estaugh, 
Going far back to the past, to the early days of her childhood; 
How she had waited and watched, in all her doubts and besetments, 
Comforted with the extendings and holy, sweet inflowings 
Of the spirit of love, till the voice imperative sounded, 13a 
And she obeyed the voice, and cast in her lot with her people 
Here in the desert land, and God would provide for the issue. 


Meanwhile Joseph sat with folded hands, and demurely 
Listened, or seemed to listen, and in the silence that followed 
Nothing was heard for a while but the step of Hannah the housemaid 
- Walking the floor overhead, and setting the chambers in order. 
And Elizabeth said, with a smile of compassion, ‘The maiden 
Hath a light heart in her breast, but her feet are heavy and awkward? 
Inwardly Joseph laughed, but governed his tongue, and was silent. 


Then came the hour of sleep, death’s counterfeit, nightly rehearsal 14a 
Of the great Silent Assembly, the Meeting of shadows, where no man 
Speaketh, but all are still, and the peace and rest are unbroken! 
Silently over that house the blessing of slumber descended. 

But when the morning dawned, and the sun uprose in his splendor, 

Breaking his way through clouds that encumbered his path in the hea- 
vens, 

Joseph was seen with his sled and oxen breaking a pathway 

Through the drifts of snow ; the horses already were harnessed, 

And John Estaugh was standing and taking leave at the threshold, 

Saying that he should return at the Meeting in May; while above them 

Hannah the housemaid, the homely, was looking out of the attic, 154 

Laughing aloud at Joseph, then suddenly closing the casement, 

As the bird in a cuckoo-clock peeps out of its window, 

Then disappears again, and closes the shutter behind it. 


TII 


Now was the winter gone, and the snow; and Robin the Redbreast 
Boasted on bush and tree it was he, it was he and no other 

That had covered with leaves the Babes in the Wood, and blithely 
All the birds sang with him, and little cared for his boasting, 

Yr for his Babes in the Wood, or the Cruel Uncle, and only 


THE THEOLOGIAN’S TALE 355 











Sang for the mates they had chosen, and cared for the nests they were 
building. 

With them, but more sedately and meekly, Elizabeth Haddon 160 

Sang in her inmost heart, but her lips were silent and songless. 

Thus came the lovely spring with a rush of blossoms and musie, 

Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with melodies vernal. 


Then it came to pass, one pleasant morning, that slowly 
Up the road there came a cavalcade, as of pilgrims, 
Men and women, wending their way to the Quarterly Meeting 
In the neighboring town; and with them came riding John Estaugh. 
At Elizabeth’s door they stopped to rest, and alighting 
Tasted the currant wine, and the bread of rye, and the honey 
Brought from the hives, that stood by the sunny wallof the garden;:170 
Then remounted their horses, refreshed, and continued their journey, 
And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, and Hannah the housemaid. 
But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a little, and leaning 
Over her horse’s neck, in a whisper said to John Estaugh: 
*Tarry awhile behind, for I have something to tell thee, 
Not to be spoken lightly, nor in the presence of others; 
Them it concerneth not, only thee and me it concerneth.’ 
And they rode slowly along through the woods, conversing together. 
It was a pleasure to breathe the fragrant air of the forest ; 
It was a pleasure to live on that bright and happy May morning! 180 


Then Elizabeth said, though still with a certain reluctance, 
As if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would have guarded: 
*T will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to tell thee ; 
I have received from the Lord a charge to love thee, John Estaugh.’ 


And John Estaugh made answer, surprised at the words she had 
spoken, 

‘Pleasant to me are thy converse, thy ways, thy meekness of spirit; 
Pleasant thy frankness of speech, and thy soul’s immaculate whiteness, 
Love without dissimulation, a holy and inward adorning. 
But I have yet no light to lead me, no voice to direct me. 
When the Lord’s work is done, and the toil and the labor completed 190 
He hath appointed to me, I will gather into the stillness 
Of my own heart awhile, and listen and wait for his guidance.’ 


Then Elizabeth said, not troubled nor wounded in spirit, 
‘So is it best, John Estaugh. We will not speak of it further, 
It hath been laid upon me to tell thee this, for to-morrow 
Thou art going away, across the sea, and I know not 
When I shall see thee more ; but if the Lord hath decreed it, 
Thou wilt return again to seek me here and to find me.’ 
And they rode onward in silence, and entered the town with the others. 


IV 


Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, 200 
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness; - 


356 TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, 
Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a Silence. 


Now went on as of old the quiet life of the homestead. 
Patient and unrepining Elizabeth labored, in all things 
Mindful not of herself, but bearing the burdens of others, 
Always thoughtful and kind and untroubled; and Hannah the hcuse 
maid 
Diligent early and late, and rosy with washing and scouring, 
Still as of old disparaged the eminent merits of Joseph, 
And was at times reproved for her light and frothy behavior, 214 
For her shy looks, and her careless words, and her evil surmisings, 
Being pressed down somewhat, like a cart with sheaves overladen, 
As she would sometimes say to Joseph, quoting the Scriptures. 


Meanwhile John Estaugh departed across the sea, and departing 
Carried hid in his heart a secret sacred and precious, 
Filling its chambers with fragrance, and seeming to him in its sweet 
ness 
Mary’s ointment of spikenard, that filled all the house with its odor. 
O lost days of delight, that are wasted in doubting and waiting ! 
O lost hours and days in which we might have been happy! 
But the light shone at last, and guided his wavering footsteps, . 220 
And at last came the voice, imperative, questionless, certain. 


Then John Estaugh came back o’er the sea for the gift that was of- 
fered, 
Better than houses and lands, the gift of a woman’s affection. 
And on the First-Day that followed, he rose in the Silent Assembly, 
Holding in his strong hand a hand that trembled a little, 
Promising to be kind and true and faithful in all things. 
Such were the marriage rites of John and Elizabeth Estaugh. 


And not otherwise Joseph, the honest, the diligent servant, 
Sped in his bashful wooing with homely Hannah the housemaid ; 
For when he asked her the question, she answered, * Nay:’ and then 
added: 230 
‘But thee may make believe, and see what will come of it, Joseph.’ 


INTERLUDE Who love of humble themes ta 
sing, 

‘A PLEASANT and a winsome | In humble verse; but no more true 

tale,’ Than was the tale I told to you.’ 
The Student said, ‘though some- 

what pale The Theologian made reply, 
And quiet in its coloring, And with some warmth, ‘ That I 
As if it caught its tone and air deny; 
From the gray suits that Quakers ; ’Tis no invention of my own, 

wear ; But something well and widely 
Yet worthy of some German bard, known 


Hebel. or Voss, or Eberhard, To readers of a riper age, 


THE SICILIAN’S TALE 


357 





Writ by the skilfulhandthat wrote | Gleamed on the hillside like a 


The Indian tale of Hobomok, 

And Philothea’s classic page. 

I found it like a waif afloat, 

Or dulse uprooted from its rock, 

On the swift tides that ebb and 
flow 

In daily papers, and at flood 

Bear freighted vessels to and fro, 

But later, when the ebb is low, 

Leave a long waste of sand and 
mud.’ 


*It matters little,’ quoth the Jew; 

‘The cloak of truth is lined with 
lies, 

Sayeth some proverb old and wise; 

And Love is master of all arts, 

And puts it into human hearts 

The strangest things to say and 
do.’ 


And here the controversy closed 

Aoruptly, ere ’t was well begun; 

For the Sicilian interposed 

With, ‘ Lordlings, listen, every one 

That listen may, unto a tale 

That’s merrier than the nightin- 
gale; 

A tale that cannot boast, forscoth, 

A single rag or shred of truth; 

That does not leave the mind in 
doubt 

As to the with it or without; 

A naked falsehood and absurd 

As mortal ever told or heard. 

Therefore I tell it; or, maybe, 

Simply because it pleases me.’ 


THE SICILIAN’S TALE 
THE MONK OF CASAL-MAGGIORE 


ONCE on a time, some centuries 
ago, 
In the hot sunshine two Francis- 
can friars 
Wended their weary way, with 
footsteps slow, 
Back to their convent, whose 
white walls and spires 


patch of snow; 
Covered with dust they were, and 
torn by briers, 
And bore like sumpter-mules upon 
their backs 
The badge of poverty, their beg- 
gar’s sacks. 


The first was Brother Anthony, a 


spare 
And silent man, with pallid 
cheeks and thin, 10 


Much given to vigils, penance, 
fasting, prayer, 
Solemn and gray, and worn with 
discipline, 
As if his body but white ashes 
‘were, 
Heaped on the living coals that 
glowed within ; 
A simple monk, like many of his 


day, 
Whose instinct was to listen and 
obey. 
A different man was Brother Tim- 
othy, 
Of larger mould and of a coarser 
paste ; 
A rubicund and stalwart monk 
was he, 
Broad in the shoulders, broader 
in the waist, 20 
Who often filled the dull refec- 
tory 


With noise by which the convent 
was disgraced, 
But to the mass-book gave but 
little heed, 
By reason he had never learned to 
read. 


Now, as they passed the outskirts 
of a wood, 
They saw, with mingled pleasure 
and surprise, 
Fast tethered to a tree an ass, that 
stood 
Lazily winking his large, limpid 
eyes. 


358 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





The farmer Gilbert, of that neigh- 


borhood, 
His owner was, who, looking for 
supplies 30 
Of fagots, deeper in the wood had 
strayed, 
Leaving his beast to ponder in the 
shade. 


As soon as Brother Timothy es- 
pied 
The patient animal, he said: 
‘Good-lack ! 
Thus for our needs doth Provi- 
dence provide ; 
We'll lay our wallets on the 
creature’s back.’ 
This being done, he leisurely un- 
tied 
From head and neck the halter 
of the jack, 
And put it round his own, and to 


the tree 
Stood tethered fast as if the ass 
were he. 40 
And, bursting forth into a merry 
laugh, 
He cried to Brother Anthony: 
‘Away! 


And drive the ass before you with 
your staff; 
_And when you reach the convent 
you may say 
You left me at a farm, half tired 
and half 
Ill with a fever, for a night and 
day, 
And that the farmer lent this ass 
to bear 
Our wallets, that are heavy with 
good fare.’ 


Now Brother Anthony, who knew 
the pranks 
Of Brother Timothy, would not 
persuade 50 
Or reason with him on his quirks 
and cranks, 
But, being obedient, 
obeyed; 


silently 


And, smiting with his staff the 

ass’s flanks, 
Drove him before him over hill 

and glade, 

Safe with his provend to the con- 
vent gate, 

Leaving poor Brother Timothy to 
his fate. 


Then Gilbert, laden with fagots for 
his fire, 
Forth issued from the wood, and 
stood aghast 
To see the ponderous body of the 


friar 
Standing where he had left his 
donkey last. 60 


Trembling he stood,and dared not 

venture nigher, 
But stared, and gaped, and 

crossed himself full fast; 

For, being credulous and of little 
wit, 

He thought it was some demon 
from the pit. 


While speechless and bewildered 
thus he gazed, 
And dropped his load of fagots 
on the ground, , 
Quoth Brother Timothy: 
amazed 
That where you left a donkey 
should be found 
A poor Franciscan friar, half- 
starved and crazed, 
Standing demure and with : 
halter bound: 
But set me free, and hear the pit 
eous story 
Of Brother Timothy of Casal 
Maggiore. 


‘Be not 


‘lama sinful man, although you 
see 
I wear the consecrated cowlané 
cape; 
You never owned an ass, but you 
owned me, 
Changed and transformed frone 
my own natural shape 


THE SICILIAN’S TALE 


359 





All for the deadly sin of gluttony, 

From which I could not other- 
wise escape, 

Than by this penance, dieting on 


grass, 
And being worked and beaten as 
an ass. 80 


*Think of the ignominy I endured; 
Think of the miserable life I 
led, 
The toil and blows to which I was 
inured, 
My wretched lodging in a windy 
shed, 
My scanty fare so grudgingly pro- 
cured, 
The damp and musty straw that 
formed my bed! 


But, having done this penance for 
my sins, 

My life as man and monk again 
begins.’ 


The simple Gilbert, hearing words 
like these, 
Was conscience - stricken, and 


fell down apace go 
Before the friar upon his bended 
knees, 


And with a suppliant voice im- 
plored his grace ; 
And the good monk, now very 
much at ease, 
Granted him pardon 
smiling face, 
Nor could refuse to be that night 
his guest, 
It being late, and he in need of 
rest. 


with a 


Upon a hillside, where the olive 
thrives, 
With figures painted on 
whitewashed walls, 
The cottage stood; and near the 
humming hives 
Made murmurs as of far-off 
waterfalls ; 100 
A place where those who love se- 
cluded lives 


its 


Might live content, and, free 
from noise and brawls, 
Like Claudian’s Old Man of Verona 
here 
Measure by fruits the slow-revoly- 
ing year. 


And, coming to this cottage of con- 
tent, 
They found his children, and the 
buxom wench 
His wife, Dame Cicely, and his 
father, bent 
With years and labor, seated on 
a bench, 
Repeating over 
event 
In the old wars of Milanese and 
French ; 11a 
All welcomed the Franciscan, with 
a sense 
Of sacred awe and humble rever- 
ence, 


some obscure 


When Gilbert told them what had 
come to pass, 
How beyond question, cavil, or 
surmise, 
Good Brother Timothy had been 
their ass, 
You should have seen the won- 
der in their eyes; 
You should have heard them cry 
‘Alas! alas!? 
Have heard their lamentations 
and their sighs! 
For all believed the story, and be- 
gan 119g 
Tosee a Saint in this afflicted man. 


Forthwith there was prepared a 
grand repast, 
To satisfy the craving of the 
friar ~ 
After so rigid and prolonged a fast; 
The bustling housewife stirred 
the kitchen fire; 
Then her two barn-yard fowls, her 
best and last, 
Were put to death, at her ex 
press desire, 


260 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 





And served up with a salad in a 
towl, 

And flasks of country wine to 
crown the whole. 


It would not be believed should I 


repeat 
How hungry Brother Timothy 
appeared ; 130 


It wasa pleasure but to see himeat, 
His white teeth flashing through 
his russet beard, 
His face aglow and flushed with 
wine and meat, 
His roguish eyes that rolled and 
laughed and leered! 
Lord! how he drank the blood-red 
country wine 
As if the village vintage were 
divine ! 


And all the while he talked-with- 
out surecease, 
And told his merry tales with 
jovial glee 
That never flagged, but rather did 


increase, 
And laughed aloud as if insane 
were he, 140 


And wagged his red beard, matted 

like a fleece, 
And cast such glances at Dame 

Cicely 

That Gilbert now grew angry with 
his guest, 

And thus in words his rising wrath 
expressed. 


*Good father,’ said he, ‘easily we 
see 
How needful in some persons, 
and how right, 
Mortification of the flesh may be. 
The indulgence you have given 
it to-night, 
Aftez long penance, clearly proves 
to me 
Your strength against tempta- 
tion is but slight, 150 
And shows the dreadful peril you 
are in 
Of a relapse into your deadly sin. 


‘To-morrow morning, with the ris 
ing sun, 
Go back unto your convent, nor 
refrain 
From fasting and from scourging, 
for you run 
Great danger to become an ass 
again, 
Since monkish flesh and asinine 
are one; 
Therefore be wise, nor longer 
here remain, 
Unless you wish the scourge 
should be applied 
By other hands, that will not spare 
your hide.’ 160 


When this the monk had heard, 
his color fled 
And then returned, like lightning 
in the air, 
Till he was all one blush from foot 
to head, 
And even the bald spot in his 
russet hair 
Turned from its usual pallor to 
bright red! 
The old man was asleep upon 
his chair. 
Then all retired, and sank into the 
deep 
And helpless imbecility of sleep. 


They slept until the dawn of day 
drew near, 
Till the cock should have crowed, 
but did not crow, 170 
For they had slain the shining 
chanticleer 
And eaten him for supper, as 
you know. 
The monk was up betimes and of 
good cheer, 
And, having breakfasted, made 
haste to go, 
As if he heard the distant matin 
bell, 
And had but little time to say fare 
well. 


THE: SICILIAN’S TALE 





Fresh was the morning as the 
breath of kine; 
Odors of herbs commingled with 
the sweet 
Balsamic exhalations of the pine; 
A haze was in the air presaging 


heat ; 180 

Uprose the sun above the Apen- 
nine, 

And all the misty valleys at its 

feet 

Were full of the delirious song of 
birds, 

Voices of men, and bells, and low 
of herds. 


All this to Brother Timothy was 
naught ; 
He did not care for scenery, nor 
here 
His busy fancy found the thing it 
sought; 
But when he saw the convent 
walls appear, 
And smoke from kitchen chimneys 
upward caught 
And whirled aloft into the atmo- 
sphere, 190 
He quickened his slow footsteps, 
like a beast 
That scents the stable a league off 
at least. 


And as he entered through the 
convent gate 
He saw there in the court the 
ass, who stood 
Twirling his ears 
seemed to wait, 
Just as he found him waiting in 
the wood; 
And told the Prior that, to allevi- 
ate 
The daily labors of the brother- 
hood, 
The owner, being a man of means 
and thrift, 
Bestowed him on the convent as a 
gift. 200 


about, and 


301 





And thereupon the Prior for many 
days 
Revolved this serious matter in 
his mind, 
And turned it over many different 
ways, 
Hoping that some safe issue he 
might find; 
But stood in fear of what the 
world would say, 
If he accepted presents of this 
kind, 
Employing beasts of burden for 
the packs 
That lazy monks should carry on 
their backs. 


Then, to avoid all scandal of the 


sort, 
And stop the mouth of cavil, he 
decreed 210 


That he would cut the tedious 
matter short, 
And sell the ass with all con- 
venient speed, 
Thus saving the expense of his 
support, 
And hoarding something for a 
time of need. 
So he despatched him to the neigh- 
boring Fair, 
And freed himself from cumber 
and from care. 


It happened now by chance, as 
some might say, 
Others perhaps would call it 


destiny, 
Gilbert was at the Fair ; and heard 
a bray, 
And nearer came and saw that 
it was he, 220 
And whispered in his ear, ‘Ah, 
lackaday ! 
Good father, the rebellious flesh, 
I see, 
Has changed you back into an ass 
again, ‘ 
And all my admonitions were in 
vain.’ 


362 


The ass, who felt this breathing 
in, his ear, 
Did not turn round to look, but 
shook his head, 
As if he were not pleased these 
words to hear, 
And contradicted all that had 
been said. 
And this made Gilbert cry in voice 
more clear, 
*I know you well; your hair is 
russet-red ; 230 
Do not deny it; for you are the 
same 
Franciscan friar, and Timothy by 
name.’ 


The ass, though now the secret 
had come out, 
Was obstinate, and shook his 
head again; 
Until a crowd was gathered round 
about 
To hear this dialogue between 
the twain: 
And raised their voices in a noisy 
shout 
When Gilbert tried to make the 
matter plain, 
And flouted him and mocked him 
all day long 
With laughter and with jibes and 
scraps of song. 240 


* If this be Brother Timothy,’ they 
cried, 
*Buy him, and feed him on the 
tenderest grass ; 
Thou canst not do too much for 
one so tried 
As to be twice transformed into 
an ass.’ 
So simple Gilbert bought him, and 
untied 
His halter, and o’er mountain 
and morass 
He led him homeward, talking as 
he went 
Of food behavior and a mind con- 
tent. 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


ee ae 


The children saw them coming, 
and advanced, 
Shouting with joy, and hung 
about his neck, — 25a 
Not Gilbert’s, but the ass’s, — 
round him danced, 
And wove green garlands where- 
withal to deck 
His sacred person; for again it 
chanced 
Their childish feelings, without 
rein or check, 


Could not discriminate in any 
way: 

A donkey from a friar of Orders 
Gray. 


‘O Brother Timothy,’ the children 
said, 
‘You have come back to us just 
as before; 
We were afraid, and thought that 
you were dead, 
And we should never see you 
any more.’ 260 
And then they kissed the white 
star on his head, 
That like a birth-mark ora badge 
he wore, 
And patted him upon the neck 
and face, 
And said a thousand things with 
childish grace. 


Thenceforward and forever he 
was known 
As Brother Timothy, and led 
alway 
A life of luxury, till he had grown 
Ungrateful, being stuffed with 
corn and hay, 
And very vicious. 
tone, 
Rousing himself, poor Gilbert 
said one day, 273 
‘When simple kindness is mis 
understood 
A little flagellation may do good.’ 


Then in angry 


THE SPANISH JEW’S SECOND TALE 


363 





His many vices need not here be 
told; 
Among them was a habit that he 
had 
Of flinging up his heels at young 
and old, 
Breaking his halter, running off 
like mad 
O’er pasture-lands and meadow, 
wood and wold, 
And other misdemeanors quite 
as bad; 
But worst of all was breaking from 
his shed 
At night, and ravaging the cab- 
bage-bed. 280 


So Brother Timothy went back 
once more 
To his old life of labor and dis- 
tress ; 
Was beaten worse than he had 
been before ; 
And now, instead of comfort and 
caress, 
Yame labors manifold and trials 
sore; 
And as his toils increased his 
food grew less, 
Until at last the great consoler, 
Death, 
Ended his many sufferings with 
his breath. 


Great was the lamentation when 


he died; 
' And mainly that he died impeni- 
tent ; 290 


ttame Cicely bewailed, the chil- 
dren cried, 
The old man still remembered 
the event 
fn the French war, and Gilbert 
magnified 
His many virtues, as he came 
and went, 
And said: ‘Heaven pardon Bro- 
ther Timothy, 
and keep us from the sin of glut- 
tony.’ 


INTERLUDE 


‘SIGNOR LUIGI,’ said the Jew, 
When the Sicilian’s tale was told, 
‘The were-wolf is a legend old, 
But the were-ass is something new, 
And yet for one I think it true. 
The days of wonder have not 
ceased ; 
If there are beasts in forms of 
men, 
As sure it happens now and then, 
Why may not man become a beast, 
In way of punishment at least? 


‘But this I will not now discuss; 

I leave the theme, that we may 
thus 

Remain within the realm of song. 

The story that I told before, 

Though not acceptable to all, 

At least you did not find too long. 

I beg you, let me try again, 

With something in a different vein, 

Before you bid the curtain fall. 

Meanwhile keep watch upon the 
door, 

Nor let the Landlord leave his 
chair, 

Lest he should vanish into air, 

And so elude our search once 
more.’ 


Thus saying, from his lips he blew 

A little cloud of perfumed breath, 

And then, as if it were a clew 

To lead his footsteps safely 
through, 

Began his tale as followeth. 


THE SPANISH JEW’S SECOND 
TALE 


SCANDERBEG 


THE battle is fought and won 
By King Ladislaus, the Hun, 
In fire of hell and death’s frost, 
On the day of Pentecost. 

And in rout before his path 


364 


From the field of battle red 
Flee all that are not dead 
Of the army of Amurath. 


In the darkness of the night 
Iskander, the pride and boast 10 
Of that mighty Othman host, 
With his routed Turks, takes flight 
From the battle fought and lost 
On the day of Pentecost ; 

Leaving behind him dead 

The army of Amurath, 

The vanguard as it led, 

The rearguard as it fled, 

Mown down in the bloody swath 
Of the battle’s aftermath. 20 


But he cared not for Hospodars, 
Nor for Baron or Voivode, 

As on through the night he rode 
And gazed at the fateful stars, 
That were shining overhead ; 

But smote his steed with his staff, 
And smiled to himself, and said: 
‘This is the time to laugh.’ 


In the middle of the night, 

In a halt of the hurrying flight, 30 
There came a Scribe of the King 
Wearing his signet ring, 

And said in a voice severe: 

‘ This is the first dark blot 

On thy name, George Castriot! 
Alas! why art thou here, 

And the army of Amurath slain, 
And left on the battle plain?’ 


And Iskander answered and said: 
‘They lie on the bloody sod 40 
By the hoofs of horses trod; 

But this was the decree 

Of the watchers overhead ; 

For the war belongeth to God, 
And in battle who are we, 

Who are we, that shall withstand 
The wind of his lifted hand?’ 


Then he bade them bind with 
chains 

This man of books and brains; 

And the Scribe said: ‘ What mis- 
deed 50 


TALES” OF A’ WAYSIDE INN 





Have I done, that, without need, 

Thou doest to me this thing ?? 

And Iskander answering 

Said unto him: ‘ Not one 

Misdeed to me hast thou done; 

But for fear that thou shouldst 
run 

And hide thyself from me, 

Have I done this unto thee. 


‘Now write me a writing, O Scribe, 

And a blessing be on thy tribe! 6c 

A writing sealed with thy ring, 

To King Amurath’s Pasha 

In the city of Croia, 

The city moated and walled, 

That he surrender the same 

In the name of my master, the 
King ; 

For what is writ in his name 

Can never be recalled.’ 


And the Scribe bowed low in 
dread, 

And unto Iskander said: 7a 

‘ Allah is great and just, 

But we are as ashes and dust; 

How shall I do this thing, 

When I know that my guilty head 

Will be forfeit to the King?’ 


Then swift as a shooting star 

The curved and shining blade 

Of Iskander’s scimetar 

From its sheath, with jewels 
bright, 79 

Shot, as he thundered: ‘ Write!’ 

And the trembling Scribe obeyed, 

And wrote in the fitful glare 

Of the bivouac fire apart, 

With the chill of the midnight air 

On his forehead white and bare, 

And the chill of death in his heart 


Then again Iskander cried: 

‘Now follow whither I ride, 

For here thou must not stay. 

Thou shalt be as my _ dearest 
friend, ga 

And honors without end 

Shall surround thee on every side 

And attend thee night and day.’ 


INTERLUDE 


365 





But the sullen Scribe replied: 
‘Our pathways here divide ; 
Mine leadeth not thy way.’ 


And even as he spoke 

Fell a sudden scimetar stroke, 

When no one else was near ; 

And the Scribe sank to the 
ground, 100 

As a stone, pushed from the brink 

Of a black pool, might sink 

With a sob and disappear; 

And no one saw the deed; 

And in the stillness around 

No sound was heard but the sound 

Of the hoofs of Iskander’s steed, 

As forward he sprang with a 
bound. 


Then onward he rode and afar, 

With scarce three hundred 
men, IIo 

Through river and forest and fen, 

O’er the mountains of Argentar ; 

And his heart was merry within, 

When he crossed the river Drin, 

And saw in the gleam of the morn 

The White Castie Ak-Hissar, 

The city Croia called, 

The city moated and walled, 

The city where he was born, — 

And above it the morning star. 120 


Then his trumpeters in the van 
On their silver bugles blew, 
And in crowds about him ran 
Albanian and Turkoman, 
That the sound together drew. 
And he feasted with his friends, 
And when they were warm with 
wine, 
He said: * O friends of mine, 
Behold what fortune sends, 
And what the fates design! 
King Amurath commands 
That my father’s wide domain, 
This city and all its lands, 
Shall be given to me again.’ 


130 


Then to the Castle White 
He rode in regal state, : 


And erteredin atthe gate 
Tn all his arms bedight, 
And gave to the Pasha 
Who ruled in Croia 

The writing of the King, 
Sealed with his signet ring. 
And the Pasha bowed his head, 
And after a silence said: 
‘Allah is just and great! 

I yield to the will divine, 

The city and lands are thine; 
Who shall contend with fate ?° 


140 


Anon from the castle walls 

The crescent banner falls, 

And the crowd beholds instead, 

Like a portent in the sky, 

Iskander’s banner fly, 

The Black Eagle with 
head ; 

And a shout ascends on high, 

For men’s souls are tired of the 
Turks, 

And their wicked ways and works, 

That have made of Ak-Hissar 

A city of the plague ; 

And the loud, exultant cry 

That echoes wide and far 

Is: ‘ Long live Scanderbeg!? 


150 


double 


160 


It was thus Iskander came 

Once more unto his own; 

And the tidings, like the flame 

Of a conflagration blown 

By the winds of summer, ran, 

Till the land was in a blaze, 

And the cities far and near, 

Sayeth Ben Joshua Ben Meir, 170 

In his Book of the Words of the 
Days, 

‘Were taken as a man 

Would take the tip of his ear.’ 


INTERLUDE 


‘Now that is after my own heart,’ 
The Poet cried ; ‘one understands 
Your swarthy hero Scanderbeg, 
Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg, 
And skilled in every warlike art, 
Riding through his Albanian lands, 


366 


TALES “OF ‘A, WAYSIDE INN 





And following the auspicious star 
That shone for him o’er Ak-Hissar.’ 


The Theologian added here 

His word of praise not less sin- 
cere, 

Although he ended with a jibe; 

* The bero of romance and song 

Was born,’ he said,‘to right the 
wrong; 

And I approve; but all the same 

That bit of treason with the Scribe 

Adds nothing to your hero’s fame.’ 


The Student praised the good old 
times, 

And liked the canter of the 
rhymes, 

That had a hoofheat 
sound; 

But longed some further word to 
hear 

Of the old chronicler Ben Meir, 

And where his volume might be 
found. 


in their 


The tall Musician walked the 
room 

With folded arms and gleaming 
eyes, 

As if he saw the Vikings rise, 

Gigantic shadows in the gloom ; 

And much he talked of their em- 
prise 

And meteors seen in Northern 
skies, 

And Heimdal’s horn, and day of 
doom. 

But the Sicilian laughed again ; 

‘This is the time to laugh,’ he said, 

For the whole story he well knew 

Was an invention of the Jew, 

Spun from the cobwebs in his 
brain, 

And of the same bright scarlet 
thread 

As was the Tale of Kambalu. 


Only the Landlord spake no word; 
T was doubtful whether he had 
heard 


The tale at all, so full of care 

Was he of his impending fate, 

That, like the sword of Damo. 
cles, 

Above his head hung blank and 
bare, 

Suspended by a single hair, 

So that he could not sit at ease, 
But sighed and looked disconso. 
late, 

And shifted restless in his chair, 
Revolving how he might evade 
The blow of the descending blade. 


The Student came to his relief 

By saying in his easy way 

To the Musician: ‘Calm your 
grief, 

My fair Apollo of the North, 

Balder the Beautiful and so forth; 

Although your magic lyre or lute 

With broken strings is lying mute 

Still you can tell some doleful 
tale, 

Of shipwreck in a midnight gale, 

Or something of the kind to suit 

The mood that we are in to-night 

For what is marvellous and 
strange ; 

So give your nimble fancy range, 

And we will follow in its flight.’ 


But the Musician shook his head; 

‘No tale I tell to-night,’ he said, 

‘While my poor instrument lies 
there, 

Even as a child with vacant stare 

Lies in its little coffin dead.’ 


Yet, being urged, he said at last: 

‘There comes to me out of the 
Past 

A voice, whose tones are sweet 
and wild, 

Singing a song almost divine, 

And with a tear in every line; 

An ancient ballad, that my nurse 

Sang to me when I was a child, 

In accents tender as the verse; 

And sometimes wept, and some 
times smiled 


THE MUSICIAN’S TALE 


367 





While singing it, to see arise 

The look of wonder in my eyes, 

And feel my heart with terror 
beat. 

This simple ballad I retain 

Clearly imprinted on my brain, 

And as a tale will now repeat.’ 


THE MUSICIAN'S TALE 
THE MOTHER’S GHOST 


SVEND DYRING he rideth adown 
the glade ; 
I myself was young ! 
There he hath wooed him so win- 
some a maid; 
Fair words gladden so many 
a heart. 


Together were they for seven 
years, 

And together children six were 
theirs. 


Then came Death abroad through 
the land, 

And blighted the beautiful lily- 
wand. 


svend Dyring he rideth adown the 


glade, 
And again hath he wooed him 
another maid. 10 


He hath wooed him a maid and 
brought home a bride, 

But she was bitter and full of 
pride. 


When she came driving into the 
yard, 

There stood the six children weep- 
ing so hard. 


There stood the small children 
with sorrowful heart ; 

From before her feet she thrust 
them apart. 


She gave to them neither ale nor 
bread ; 

‘Ye shall suffer hunger and hate,* 
she said. 


She took from them their quilts of 
blue, 

And said: ‘Ye shall lie on the 
straw we strew.’ 20 


She took from them the great wax- 
light: 

‘Now ye shall lie in the dark at 
night.’ 


In the evening late they cried with 
cold; 

The mother heard it under the 
mould. 


The woman heard it the earth be- 
low: 

‘To my little children I must 
go.’ 


She standeth before the Lord of 
all: 

‘And may I go to my children 
small?’ 


She prayed him so long, and would 
not cease, 
Until he bade her depart in peace. 


‘At cock-crow thou shalt return 


again ; 3I 
Longer thou shalt not there re- 
main!’ 


She girded up her sorrowful bones, 
And rifted the walls and the mar- 
ble stones, 


As through the village she flitted 
by, 

The watch-dogs howled aloud to 
the sky. 


When she came to the castle gate, 
There stood her eldest daughter 
in wait. 


368 





“Why standest thou here, dear 
daughter mine? 

How fares it with brothers and 
sisters thine?’ 40 


* Never art thou mother of mine, 
For my mother was both fair and 
fine. 


* My mother was white, with cheeks 
of red, 

But thou art pale, and like to the 
dead.’ 


‘How should I be fair and fine? 
I have been dead; pale cheeks are 
mine. 


*How should I be white and 


red, 

so long, so long have I been 
dead?’ 

When she came in at the chamber 
door, 

There stood the small children 
weeping sore. 50 


One she braided, another she 
brushed, 

The third she lifted, the fourth she 
hushed. 


The fifth she took on her lap and 
pressed, 

As if she would suckle it at her 
breast. 


Then to her eldest daughter said 
she, 

°*Do thou bid Svend Dyring come 
hither to me.’ 


Into the chamber when he came 
She spake to him in anger and 
shame. 


*I left behind me both ale and 


bread ; 
My children hunger and are not 


fed. 60 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


et 


‘T left behind me quilts of blue; 
My children lie on the straw ye 
strew. 


‘I left behind me the great wax- 
light ; , 

My children lie in the dark at 
night. 


‘If I come again unto your hall, 
As cruel a fate shall you befall! 


‘Now crows the cock with fea- 
thers red; 

Back to the earth must all the 
dead. 


‘ Now crows the cock with feathers 
swart; 
The gates of heaven fly wide apart. 


‘ Now crows the cock with feathers 
white ; 71 
I can abide no longer to-night.’ 


Whenever they heard the watch- 
dogs wail, 

They gave the children bread and 
ale. 


Whenever they heard the watch- 
dogs bay, 

They feared lest the dead were on 
their way. 


Whenever they heard the watch- 
dogs bark, 
I myself was young ! 
They feared the dead out there in 


the dark. 
Fair words gladden so many 
a heart. 80 
INTERLUDE 


TOUCHED by the pathos of these 
rhymes, 

The Theologian said: ‘ All praise 

Be to the ballads of old times 

And to the bards of simple ways, 


THE LANDLORD’S TALE 369 





‘Who walked with Nature hand in 
hand, 

Whose country was their Holy 
Land, 

Whose singing robes were home- 
spun brown 

From looms of their own native 
town, 

Which they were not ashamed to 
wear, 

And not of silk or sendal gay, 

Nor decked with fanciful array 

Of cockle-shells from Outre-Mer.’ 


To whom the Student answered; 
‘Yes ; 

All praise and honor! I confess 

That bread and ale, home-baked, 
home-brewed, 

Are wholesome and 
food, 

But not enough for all our needs; 

Poets — the best of them — are 
birds 

Of passage; where their instinct 
leads 

They range abroad for thoughts 
and words, 

And from all climes bring home 
the seeds 

That germinate 
weeds. 

They are not fowls in barnyards 
born 

To cackle o’er a grain of corn; 

And if you shut the horizon down 

To the small limits of their town, 

What do you but degrade your 
bard 

Till he at last becomes as one 

Who thinks the all-encircling sun 

Rises and sets in his back yard?’ 


nutritious 


in flowers or 


The Theologian said again: 

It may be so; yet I maintain 
That what is native still is best, 
And little care I for the rest. 

*T is a long story; time would fail 
To tell it, and the hour is late ; 
We will not waste it in debate, 
But listen to our Landlord’s tale.’ 


And thus the sword of Damocles 
Descending not by slow degrees, 
But suddenly, on the Landlord fell, 
Who blushing, and with much de- 
mur 
And many vain apologies, 
Plucking up heart, began to tell 
The Rhyme of one Sir Christopher. 


THE LANDLORD'S TALE 


THE RHYME OF SIR CHRISTO- 
PHER 


It was Sir Christopher Gardiner, 
Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, 
From Merry England over the sea, 
Who stepped upon this continent 
As if his august presence lent 

A glory to the colony. 


You should have seen him in the 
street 

Of the little Boston of Winthrop’s 
time, 

His rapier dangling at his feet, 

Doublet and hose and boots com- 


plete, 10 
Prince Rupert hat with ostrich 
plume, 
Gloves that exhaled a faint per- 
fume, 


Luxuriant curls and air sublime, 
And superior manners now obso- 
lete! 


He had a way of saying things 

That made one think of courts and 
kings, 

And lords and ladies of high de- 
gree; 

So that not having been at court 

Seemed something very little short 


Of treason or lese-majesty, 20 
Such an accomplished knight was 
he. 


His dwelling was just beyond the 
town, 
At what he called his country-seat: 


37° 





For, careless of Fortune’s smile or 
frown, 

And weary grown of the world and 
its ways, 

He wished to pass the rest of his 
days 

In a private life and a calm re- 
treat. 


But a double life was the life he 


led, 

And, while professing to be in 
search 

Of a godly course, and willing, he 
said, 30 

Nay, anxious to join the Puritan 
church, 

He made of all this but small ac- 
count, 

And passed his idle hours in- 
stead 

With roystering Morton of Merry 
Mount, 

That pettifogger from Furnival’s 
Inn, 


Lord of misrule and riot and sin, 
Who looked on the wine when it 
was red. 


This country-seat was little more 

Than a cabin of logs; but in front 
of the door 

A modest flower-bed thickly sown 

With sweet alyssum and colum- 


bine 4I 
Made those who saw it at once 
divine 


The touch of some other hand 
than his own. 

And first it was whispered, and 
then it was known, 

That he in secret was harboring 
there 

A little lady with golden hair, 

Whom he ealled his cousin, but 
whom he had wed 


In the Italian manner, as men 
said, 

And great was the scandal every 
where. 





TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 


But worse than this was the vague 
surmise, 50 

Though none could vouch for it or 
aver, 

That the Knight of the Holy Sepul- 
chre 

Was only a Papist in disguise; 

And the more to imbitter their bit- 
ter lives, 

And the more to trouble the pub- 
lic mind, 

Came letters from England, from 
two other wives, 

Whom he had carelessly left be- 


hind; 

Both of them letters of such a 
kind 

As made the governor hold his 
breath ; 

The one imploring him straight to 
send 60 

The husband home, that he might 
amend; 

The other asking his instanoe 
death, 


As the only way to make an end. 


‘The wary governor deemed it 


right, 

When all this wickedness was re- 
vealed, 

To send his warrant signed and 
sealed, 

And take the body of the knight. 

Armed with -this mighty instru- 
ment, 

The marshal, mounting his gallant 
steed, 

Rode forth from town at the on 
of his speed, 

And followed by all his bailiffs 
bold, 

As if on high achievement bent, 

To storm some castle or strong- 
hold, 

Challenge the warders on the 
wall, 

And seize in his ancestral hall 

A robber-baron grim and old. 


THE LANDLORD'S TALE. 


371 





But when through all the dust and 
heat 

He came to Sir Christopher’s coun- 
try-seat, 

No knight he found, nor warder 
there, ; 

But the little lady with golden 

— hair 80 

Who was gathering in the bright 
sunshine 

The sweet alyssum and columbine; 

While gallant Sir Christopher, all 
SO gay, 

Being forewarned, through the 
postern gate 

Of his castle wall had tripped 
away, 

And was keeping a little holiday 

In the forests, that bounded his 
estate. 


Then as a trusty squire and true 

The marshal searched the castle 
through, 

Not crediting what the lady said ; 

Searched from cellar to garret in 


vain, gt 

And, finding no knight, came out 
again 

And arrested the golden damsel 
instead, 

And bore her in triumph into the 
town, 


White from her eyes the tears 
rolled down 

On the sweet alyssum and colum- 
bine, 

That she held in her fingers white 
and fine. 


The governor’s heart was moved 
to see 

So fair a creature caught within 99 

The snares of Satan and of sin, 

And he read her a little homily 

On the folly and wickedness of 
the lives 

Of women half cousins and half 
wives; 

But, seeing that naught his words 
availed, 


He sent her away in a ship that 
sailed 

For Merry England over the sea, 

To the other two wives in the old 
countree, 

To search her further, since he 
had failed 

To come at the heart of the mys. 
tery. 


Meanwhile Sir Christopher wan- 
dered away IIO 

Through pathless woods for a 
month and a day, 

Shooting pigeons, and sleeping at 
night 

With the noble savage, who took 
delight 

In his feathered hat and his velvet 
vest, 

His gun and his rapier and the rest. 

But as soon as the noble savage 
heard 

That a bounty was offered for this 
gay bird, 

He wanted to slay him out of 
hand, 

And bring in his beautiful scalp 
for a show, 

Like the glossy head of a kite or 
crow, 120 

Until he was made to understand 

They wanted the bird alive, not 
dead ; 

Then he followed him whitherso- 
ever he fled, 

Through forest and field, and 
hunted him down, 

And brought him prisoner into the 
town. 


Alas! it was a rueful sight, 
To see this melancholy knight 
In such a dismal and hapless 


case ; 

His hat deformed by stain and 
dent, 

His plumage broken, his doublet 
rent, 130 


His beard and flowing locks for. 
lorn, 


372 


Matted, dishevelled, and unshorn, 

His boots with dust and mire be- 
sprent ; 

But dignified in his disgrace, 

And wearing an unblushing face. 

And thus before the magistrate 

He stood to hear the doom of 
fate. 

In vain he strove with wonted 
ease 

To modify ana cxtenuate 

His evil deeds in church and state, 

For gone was now his power to 
please ; 141 

And his pompous words had no 
more weight 

Than feathers flying in the breeze. 


With suavity equal to his own 
The governor lent a patient ear 
To the speech evasive and high- 


flown, 

In which he endeavored to make 
clear 

That colonial laws were too Sse- 
vere 

When applied to a gallant cava- 
lier, 

A gentleman born, and so well 
known, 150 


And accustomed to move in a 
higher sphere. 


All this the Puritan governor 


heard, 

And deigned in answer never a 
word ; 

But in summary manner shipped 
away, 

In a vessel that sailed from Salem 
Bay, 

This splendid and famous cava- 
lier, 

With his Rupert hat and his 
popery, 


To Merry England over the sea, 
As being unmeet to inhabit here. 


Thus endeth the Rhyme of Sir 
Christopher, 160 
Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 








The first who furnished this barren 
land 

With apples of Sodom and ropes 
of sand. 


FINALE 


THESE are the tales those merry 
guests 

Told to each other, well or ill; 

Like summer birds that lift their 
crests 

Above the borders of their nests 

And twitter, and again are still. 


These are the tales, or new or old, 

In idle moments idly told; 

Flowers of the field with petals 
thin, 

Lilies that neither toil nor spin, 

And tufts of wayside weeds and 
gorse 

Hung in the parlor of the inn 

Beneath the sign of the Red 
Horse. 


And still, reluctant to retire, 

The friends sat talking by the fire 

And watched the smouldering 
embers burn 

To ashes, and flash up again 

Into a momentary glow, 

Lingering like them when forced 
to go, 

And going when they would re- 
main; 

For on the morrow they must turn 

Their faces homeward, and the 
pain 

Of parting touched with its unrest 

A tender nerve in every breast. 


But sleep at last the victory won; 

They must be stirring with the 
sun, 

And drowsily good night they 
said, 

And went still gossiping to bed, 

And left the parlor wrapped in 
gloom, 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE 


343 





The only live thing in the room 

Was the old clock, that in its pace 

Kept time with the revolving 
spheres 

And constellations in their flight, 

And struck with its uplifted mace 

The dark, unconscious hours of 
night, 

To senseless and unlistening ears. 


Uprose the sun; and every guest, 

Uprisen, was soon equipped and 
dressed 

For journeying home and ecity- 
ward; 

The old stage-coach was at the 
door, 

With horses harnessed, long be- 
fore 

The sunshine reached the with- 
eredsward . 

Beneath the oaks, whose branches 
hoar 

Murmured : 
more.’ 


‘Farewell forever- 


‘Farewell!’ the portly Landlord 
cried ; 

‘Farewell!’ the parting guests re- 
plied, 

But little thought that nevermore 


FLOWER- 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE 


BEAUTIFUL lily, dwelling by still 
rivers, 
Or solitary mere, 
Or where the sluggish meadow- 
brook delivers 
Its waters to the weir! 


Thou laughest at the mill, the whir 
and worry 
Of spindle and of loom, 
And the great wheel that toils 
amid the hurry 
And rushing of the flume. 


Their feet would pass that thresh. 
old o’er; 

That nevermore together there 

Would they assemble, free from 


care, 

To hear the oaks’ mysterious 
roar, 

And breathe the wholesome coun- 
try air. 


Where are they now? What lands 
and skies 

Paint pictures in their friendly 
eyes? 

What hope deludes, what promise 
cheers, 

What pleasant voices fill their 
ears? 

Two are beyond the salt sea 
waves, 

And three already in their graves, 

Perchance the living still may 
look 

Into the pages of this book, 

And see the days of long ago 

Floating and fleeting to and fro, 

As in the well-rremembered brook 

They saw the inverted landscape 
gleam, 

And their own faces like a dream 

Look up upon them from below. 


DE-LUCE 


Born in the purple, born to joy 
and pleasance, 
Thou dost not toil nor spin, 
But makest glad and radiant with 
thy presence 
The meadow and the lin. 


The wind blows, and uplifts thy 
drooping banner, 
And round thee throng and 
run 
The rushes, the green yeomen of 
thy manor, 
The outlaws of the sun. 





The burnished dragon-fly is thy 
attendant, 
And tilts against the field, 
And down the listed sunbeam rides 
resplendent 
With — steel-blue 
shield. 


mail and 


Thou art the Iris, fair among the 
fairest, 
Who, armed with golden rod 
And winged with the celestial 
azure, bearest 
The message of some God. 


Thou art the Muse, who far from 
crowded cities 
Hauntest the sylvan streams, 
Playing on pipes of reed the artless 
ditties 
That come to us as dreams. 


O flower-de-luce, bloom on, and let 
the river 
Linger to kiss thy feet! 
O flower of song, bloom on, and 
make forever 
The world more fair and sweet. 


PALINGENESIS 


I LAY upon the headland-height, 
and listened 
To the incessant sobbing of the 
sea 
In caverns under me, 
And watched the waves, that 
tossed and fled and glistened, 
Until the rolling meadows of ame- 
thyst 
Melted away in mist. 


Then suddenly, as one from sleep, 
I started; 

For round about me all the sunny 
capes 

Seemed peopled with 

shapes 

Of those whom TI had known in 
days departed, 10 


the 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE 


——$—$$—s 


Apparelled in the loveliness which 
gleams 
On faces seen in dreams. 


A moment only, and the light and 
glory 
Faded away, and the disconsolate 
shore 
Stood lonely as before ; 
And the wild-roses of the promon- 
tory 
Around me shuddered in the wind, 
and shed 
Their petals of pale red. 


There was an old belief that in the 


embers 
Of all things their primordial form 
exists, 20 


And cunning alchemists 
Could re-create the rose with all its 
membefrs 
From its own ashes, but without 
the bloom, 
Without the lost perfume. 


Ah me! what wonder-working, oc- 
cult science 
Can from the ashes in our hearts 
once more 
The rose of youth restore ? 
What craft of alchemy can bid de. 
fiance 
To time and change, and for a sin- 
gle hour 
Renew this phantom-flower ? 30 


‘Oh, give me back,’ I cried, ‘the 
vanished splendors, 
The breath of morn, and the exult 
ant strife, 
When the swift stream of life 
Bounds o’er its rocky channel, and 
surrenders 
The pond, with allits lilies, for the 
leap 
Into the unknown deep!’ 


And the sea answered, with a lam. 
entation, 

Like some old prophet wailing, and 
it said, 


THE BRIDGE? OF * CLOUD 





‘Alas! thy youth is dead! 
It breathes no more, its heart has 


no pulsation ; 40 
In the dark places with the dead 
of old 


It lies forever cold!? 


Then said I,‘ From its consecrated 
cerements 
I will not drag this sacred dust 
again, 
Only to give me pain; 
But, still remembering all the lost 
endearments, 
Go on my way, like one who looks 
before, 
And turns to weep no more.’ 


Into what land of harvests, what 


plantations 
Bright with autumnal foliage and 
the glow 50 


Of sunsets burning low; 
Beneath what midnight skies, 
whose constellations 
Light up the spacious avenues be- 
tween 
This world and the unseen ! 


Amid what friendly greetings and 
caresses, 
What households,though not alien, 
yet not mine, 
What bowers of rest divine; 
To what temptations in lone wil- 
dernesses, 
What famine of the heart, what 
pain and loss, 
The bearing of what cross! 60 


I do not know; nor will I vainly 
question 
Those pages of the mystic book 
which hold 
The story still untold, 
Rus without rash conjecture or 
suggestion 
=rn its last leaves in reverence 
and good heed, 
Until ‘ The End’ I read. 








375 


a 


THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD 


Burn, O evening hearth, and 
waken 
Pleasant visions, as of old! 
Though the house by winds be 
shaken, 
Safe I keep this room of gold! 


Ah, no longer wizard Fancy 
Builds her castles in the air, 
Luring me by necromancy 
Up the never-ending stair! 


But, instead, she builds me bridges 
Over many a dark ravine, 

Where beneath the gusty ridges 
Cataracts dash and roar unseen, 


And I cross them, little heeding 
Blast of wind or torrent’s roar, 

As I follow the receding 
Footsteps that have gone before. 


Naught avails the imploring ges- 
ture, 
Naught avails the cry of pain! 
When I touch the flying vesture, 
*T is the gray robe of the rain. 


Baffled I return, and, leaning 
O’er the parapets of cloud, 

Watch the mist that intervening 
Wraps the valley in its shroud. 


And the sounds of life ascending 
Faintly, vaguely, meet the ear, 
Murmur of bells and voices blend- 

ing 
With the rush of waters near. 


Well I know what there lies hidden, 
Every tower and town and farm, 

And again the land forbidden 
Reassumes its vanished charm. 


Well I know the secret places, 
And the nests in hedge and tree}; 
At what doors are friendly faces, 
In what hearts are thoughts of 
me. 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE 


— —_—_—_—_4 


Through the mist and darkness I only see—a dream within a 


376 
sinking, 
Blown by wind and beaten by 
shower, 
Down I fling the thought I’m 
thinking, 


Down I toss this Alpine flower. 


HAWTHORNE 
MAY 23, 1864 


How beautiful it was, that one 
bright day 
In the long week of rain! 
Though all its splendor could not 
chase away 
The omnipresent pain. 


The lovely town was white with 
apple-blooms, 
And the great elms o’erhead 
Dark shadows wove on their aerial 
looms 
Shot through with golden thread. 


Across the meadows, by the gray 
old manse, 
The historic river flowed: 
I was as one who wanders in a 
trance, 
Unconscious of his road. 


The faces of familiar friends 
seemed strange ; 
Their voices I could hear, 
And yet the words they uttered 
seemed to change 
Their meaning to my ear. 


For the one face I looked for was 
not there, 
The one low voice was mute ; 
Only an unseen presence filled the 
air, 
And baffled my pursuit. 


Now I look back, and meadow, 
manse, and stream 
Dimly my thought defines; 


dream — 
The hill-top hearsed with pines. 


I only hear above his place of 
rest 
Their tender undertone, 
The infinite longings of a troubleg 
breast, ; 
The voice so like his own. 


There in seclusion and remote 
from men 
The wizard hand lies cold, 
Which at its topmost speed let fall 
the pen, 
And left the tale half told. 


Ah! who shall lift that wand of 
magic power, 
And the lost clew regain ? 
The unfinished window in Alad- 
din’s tower 
Unfinished must remain! 


CHRISTMAS BELLS 


I HEARD the bells on Christmas 
Day 
Their old, familiar carols play, 
And wild and sweet 
The words repeat 
Of peace on earth, good-will to 
men! 


And thought how, as the day had 
come, 
The belfries of all Christendom 
Had rolled along 
The unbroken song 
Of peace on earth, good-will toa 
men! 


Till, ringing, singing on its way, 
The world revolved from night te 
day, 
A voice, a chime, 
A chant sublime 
Of peace on earth, good-will te 
men! 


THE WIND OVER THE CHIMNEY 


Then from each black, accursed 
mouth 
The cannon 
South, 
And with the sound 
The carols drowned 
Of peace on earth, good - will to 
men! 


thundered in the 


It was as if an earthquake rent 
The hearth-stones of a continent, 
And made forlorn 
The households born 
Of peace on earth, good-will to 
men! 


And in despair I bowed my head; 
‘There is no peace on earth,’ I 
said; 
‘For hate is strong, 
And mocks the song 
OF peace on earth, good-will to 
men!’ 


Yhen pealed the bells more loud 
and deep: 
*God is not dead; nor doth he 
Sleep! 
The Wrong shall fail, 
The Right prevail, 
With peace on earth, good-will to 
men!? 


THE WIND OVER THE 
CHIMNEY 


SEE, the fire is sinking low, 
Dusky red the embers glow, 
While above them still I cower, 
While a moment more I linger, 
Though the clock, with lifted fin- 
ger, 
Points beyond the midnight 
hour. 


Sings the blackened log a tune 
Learned in some forgotten June 
From a school-boy at his play, 
When they both were young to- 
gether, 


377 


Heart. of youth and summer 
weather 


Making all their holiday. 


And the night-wind rising, hark! 
How above there in the dark, 
In the midnight and the snow, 
Ever wilder, fiercer, grander, 
Like the trumpets of Iskander, 
All the noisy chimneys blow! 


Every quivering tongue of flame 
Seems to murmur some great 
name, 
Seems to say to me, * Aspire !? 
But the night-wind answers, ‘ Hol- 
low 
Are the visions that you follow, 
Into darkness sinks your fire!’ 


Then the flicker of the blaze 
Gleamis on volumes of old days, 
Written by masters of the art, 
Loud through whose majestic 
pages 
Rolls the melody of ages, 
Throb the harp-strings of the 
heart. 


And again the tongues of flame 
Start exulting and exclaim: 
‘ These are prophets, bards, and 
seers ; 
In the horoscope of nations, 
Like ascendant constellations, 
They control the coming years.’ 


But the night-wind cries: ‘ De- 
spair ! 
Those who walk with feet of 
air 
Leave no long-enduring marks; 
At God’s forges incandescent 
Mighty hammers beat incessant, 
These are but the flying sparks. 


‘Dust are all the hands that 
wrought ; 
Books are sepulchres of thought; 
The dead laurels of the dead 


378 





Rustle for a moment only, 
Like the withered leaves in lonely 
Churchyards at some passing 
tread.’ 


Suddenly the flame sinks down; 
Sink the rumors of renown; 

And alone the night-wind drear 
Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer, — 
‘°T is the brand of Meleager 

Dying on the hearth-stone here!’ 


And I answer, —‘ Though it be, 
Why should that discomfort me ? 
No endeavor is in vain; 
Its reward is in the doing, 
And the rapture of pursuing 
Is the prize the vanquished gain.’ 


THE BELLS OF LYNN 
HEARD AT NAHANT 


O CURFEW Of the setting sun! O 
Bells of Lynn! 

O requiem of the dying day! O 
Bells of Lynn! 


From the dark belfries of yon 
cloud-cathedral wafted, 
Your sounds aerial seem to float, 
’ O Bells of Lynn! 


Borne on the evening wind across 
the crimson twilight, 

O’er land and sea they rise and 
fall, O Bells of Lynn! 


The fisherman in his boat, far out 
beyond the headland, 

Listens, and leisurely rows ashore, 
O Bells of Lynn! 


Over the shining sands the wander- 
ing cattle homeward 

Follow each other at your call, O 
Bells of Lynn! 


The distant lighthouse hears, and 
with his flaming signal 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE 


ef 


Answers you, passing the watch 
word on, O Bells of Lynn! 


And down the darkening coast 
run the tumultuous surges, 

And elap their hands, and shout to 
you, O Bells of Lynn! 


Till from the shuddering sea, with 
your wild incantations, 

Ye summon up the spectral moon, 
O Bells of Lynn! 


And startled at the sight, like the 
weird woman of Endor, 

Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O 
Bells of Lynn! 


KILLED AT THE FORD 


HE is dead, the beautiful youth, 

The heart of honor, the tongue of 
truth, 

He, the life and light of us all, 

Whose voice was blithe as a bugle- 
call, 

Whom all eyes followed with one 
consent, 

The cheer of whose laugh, and 
whose pleasant word, 

Hushed all murmurs of discontent. 


Only last night, as we rode along, 

Down the dark of the mountain 
gap, 

To visit the picket-guard at the 
ford, 

Little dreaming of any mishap, 

He was humming the words of 
some old song: 

‘Two red roses he had on his cap 

And another he bore at the point 
of his sword.’ 


Sudden and swift a whistling ball 

Came out of a wood, and the voice 
was still; 

Something I heard in the darkness 
fall, 

And for a moment my blood grew 
chill; 


TO-MORROW 





I spake in a whisper, as he who 
speaks 

In a room where some one is lying 
dead ; 

But he made no answer to what I 
said. 


We lifted him up to his saddle 
again, 

And through the mire and the 
mist and the rain 

Carried him back to the silent 
camp, 

And laid him as if asleep on his 
bed; 

And I saw by the light of the 
surgeon’s lamp 

Two white roses upon his cheeks, 

And one, just over his heart, blood- 
red! 


And I saw in a vision how far and 
fleet 

That fatal bullet went speeding 
forth, 

Till it reached a town in the dis- 
tant North, 

Till it reached a house in a sunny 
street, 

Till it reached a heart that ceased 
to beat 

Without a murmur, without a 
ery ; 

And a bell was tolled, in that far- 
off town, 

For one who had passed from cross 
to crown, 

And the neighbors wondered that 
she should die. 


GIOTTO’S TOWER 


How many lives, made beautiful 
and sweet 
By self-devotion and by self- 
restraint, 
Whose pleasure is to run with- 
out complaint 
On unknown errands of the 
Paraclete, 


379 





Wanting the reverence of unshod- 
den feet, 
Fail of the nimbus which the 
artists paint 
Around the shining forehead of 
the saint, 
And are in their completeness 
incomplete! 
In the old Tuscan town stands 
Giotto’s tower, 
The lily of Florence blossoming 
in stone, — 
A vision, a delight, and a de- 
sire, — 
The builder’s perfect and centen- 
nial flower, 
That in the night of ages bloomed 
alone, 
But wanting still the glory of 
the spire. 


TO-MORROW 


’T 18 late at night, and in the realm 
of sleep 
My little lambs are folded like 
the flocks; 
From room to room I hear the 
wakeful clocks 
Challenge the passing hour, like 
guards that keep 
Their solitary watch on tower and 
steep; 
Far off I hear the crowing of the 
cocks, 
And through the opening door 
that time unlocks 
Feel the fresh breathing of To- 
morrow creep. 
To-morrow! the mysterious, un- 
known guest, 
Who cries to me: ‘Remember 
Barmecide, 
And tremble to be happy with 
the rest.’ 
And I make answer: ‘I am satis- 
fied; 
I dare not ask; I know not what 
is best; 
God hath already said what shall 
betide.’ 


380 





DIVINA COMMEDIA 


I 


OFT have I seen at some cathedral 
door 
A laborer, pausing in the dust 
and heat, 
Lay down his burden, and with 
reverent feet 
Enter, and cross himself, and on 


the floor 
Kneel to repeat his paternoster 
o’er; 
Far off the noises of the world 
retreat; 
The loud vociferations of the 
street 
Become an _  undistinguishable 
roar. 
So, as I enter here from day to 
day, 


And leave my burden at this 
minster gate, 

Kneeling in prayer, and not 
ashamed to pray, 

The tumult of the time disconso- 

late 

To inarticulate murmurs dies 
away, 

While the eternal ages watch 
and wait. 


II 


How strange the sculptures that 
adorn these towers! 
This crowd of statues, in whose 
folded sleeves 
Birds build their nests; while 
canopied with leaves 
Parvis and portal bloom like 
trellised bowers, 
And the vast minster seems a 
cross of flowers! 
But fiends and dragons on the 
gargoyled eaves 
Watch the dead Christ between 
the living thieves, 
And, underneath, the traitor 
Judas lowers! 
Ah! from what agonies of heart 
and brain, 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE 


ee 


What exultations trampling on 
despair, 
What tenderness, what tears, 
what hate of wrong, 
What passionate outcry of a soul 
in pain, 
Uprose this poem of the earth 
and air, 
This medizval miracle of song! 


III 


I enter, and I see thee in the 
gloom 
Of the long aisles, O poet satur- 
nine! 
And strive to make my steps 
keep pace with thine. 
The air is filled with some un- 
known perfume ; 
The congregation of the dead make 
room 
For thee to pass; the votive 
tapers shine ; 
Like rooks that haunt Ravenna’s 
groves of pine 
The hovering echoes fly from 
tomb to tomb. 
From the confessionals I hear 


arise 

Rehearsals of forgotten trage- 
dies, 

And lamentations from the 


crypts below ; 
And then a voice celestial that 
begins 
With the pathetic words, ‘ Al 
though your sins 
As searlet be,’ and ends with 
‘as the snow.’ 


IV 


With snow-white veil and gar- 

ments as of flame, 

She stands before thee, who so 
long ago 

Filled thy young heart with pas. 
sion and the woe 

From which thy song and all its 
splendors came ; 


NOEL 


—_— 


And while with stern rebuke she 
speaks thy name, 
The ice about thy heart melts as 
the snow 
On mountain heights, and in 
. swift overflow 
Comes gushing from thy lips in 
sobs of shame. 
Thou makest full confession; and 
a gleam, 
As of the dawn on some dark 
forest cast, 
Seems on thy lifted forehead to 
increase ; 
Lethe and Eunoé— the remem- 
bered dream 
And the forgotten 
bring at last 
That perfect pardon which is 
perfect peace. 


sorrow — 


Vv 


{lift mine eyes, and all the win- 
dows blaze 
With forms of Saints and holy 
men who died, 
Here martyred and hereafter 
glorified ; 
And the great Rose upon its 
leaves displays 
Christ’s Triumph, and the angelic 
roundelays, 
With splendor 
multiplied; 
And Beatrice again at Dante’s 
side 
No more rebukes, but smiles her 
words of praise. 
And then the organ sounds, and 
unseen choirs 
Sing the old Latin hymns of 
peace and love 
And benedictions of the Holy 
Ghost; 
snd the melodious bells among 
the spires 
Over all the house-tops 
through heaven above 
Proclaim the elevation of the 
Host! 


upon splendor 


and 


381 


VI 


O star of morning and of liberty! 
O bringer of the light, whose 
splendor shines 
Above the darkness of the Apen- 
nines, — 
Forerunner of the day that is to 
be! 
The voices of the city and the sea, 
The voices of the mountains and 
the pines, 
Repeat thy song, till the familiar 
lines 
Are footpaths for the thought of 
Italy ! 
Thy flame is blown abroad from 
all the heights, 
Through all the nations, and a 
sound is heard, 
As of a mighty wind, and men 
devout, 
Strangers of Rome, and the new 
proselytes, 
In their own language hear thy 
wondrous word, 
And many are amazed and 
many doubt. 


NOEL 


ENVoOYHA M. AGASSIZ, LA VEILLE 
DE NOEL 1864, AVEC UN PANIER 
DE VINS DIVERS. 


L’ Académie en respect, 
Nonobstant l’incorrection 
A la faveur du sujet, 
Ture-lure, 
N’y fera point de rature ; 
Noél! ture-lure-lure. 
Gut BaRrozal. 


QUAND les astres de Noel 

Brillaient, palpitaient au ciel, 

Six gaillards, et chacun ivre, 

Chantaient gaiment dans le givre. 
‘Bons amis, 

Allons done chez Agassiz !° 


Ces illustres Pélerins 
D’Outre-Mer adroits et fins, 


382 BIRDS 


OF PASSAGE 





Se donnant des airs de prétre, 

A lenvi se vantaient d’étre 
‘Bons amis 

De Jean Rudolphe Agassiz !? 


iil-de-Perdrix, grand farceur, 
Sans reproche et sans pudeur, 
Dans son patois de Bourgogne, 
Bredouillait comme un ivrogne, 

* Bons amis, ' 
J’ai dansé chez Agassiz!’ 


Verzenay le Champenois, 
Bon Francais, point New- Yor- 
quois, 
Mais des environs d’Avize, 
Fredonne & mainte reprise, 
‘Bons amis, 
J’ai chanté chez Agassiz !? 


A c6té marchait un vieux 

Hidalgo, mais non mousseux ; 

Dans le temps de Charlemagne 

Fut son pére Grand d’Espagne ! 
‘Bons amis, 

J’ai diné chez Agassiz!’ 


Derriére eux un Bordelais, 

Gascon, s’il en fut jamais, 

Parfumé de poésie 

Riait, chantait, plein de vie, 
‘Bon amis, 

J’ai soupé chez Agassiz!’ 


Avec ce beau cadet roux, 

Bras dessus et bras dessous, 

Mine altiére et couleur terne, 

Vint le Sire de Sauterne ; 
‘Bons amis, 

J’ai couché chez Agassiz!’ 


Mais le dernier de ces preux, 

Etait un pauvre Chartreux, 

Qui disait, d’un ton robuste, 

‘ Bénédictions sur le Juste ! 
Bons amis, 

Bénissons Pére Agassiz!’ 


Ils arrivent trois a trois, 

Montent l’escalier de bois 

Clopin-clopant! quel gendarme 

Peut permettre ce vacarme, 
Bons amis, 

A la porte d’Agassiz ! 


‘Ouvrez done, mon bon Seigneur, 

Ouvrez vite et n’ayez peur ; 

Ouvrez, ouvrez, car nous sommes 

Gens de bien et gentilshommes, 
Bons amis, 

De la famille Agassiz!’ 


Chut, ganaches! taisez-vous ! 
C’en est trop de vos glouglous ; 
Epargnez aux Philosophes 
Vos abominables strophes! 
Bons amis, 
Respectez mon Agassiz! 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE 


FLIGHT) THE THIRD 


FATA MORGANA 


¥“SWEBET illusions of Song, 
That tempt me everywhere, 

I.. the lonely fields, and the throng 
Of the crowded thoroughfare ! 


I approach, and ye vanish away, 
I grasp you, and ye are gone; 


But ever by night and by day, 
The melody soundeth on. 


As the weary traveller sees 
In desert or prairie vast, 
Blue lakes, overhung with trees, 
That a pleasant shadow cast: 


Fair towns with turrets high, 
And shining roofs of gold, 


THE MEETING 


That vanish as he draws nigh, 
Like mists together rolled, — 


So I wander and wander along, 
And forever before me gleams 
The shining city of song, 
In the beautiful land of dreams. 


But when I would enter the gate 
Of that golden atmosphere, 

It is gone, and I wonder and wait 
For the vision to reappear. 


THE HAUNTED CHAMBER 


EAcii heart has its haunted cham- 
ber, 
Where 
falls! 
On the floor are mysterious foot- 
steps, 
There are whispers along the 
walls! 


the silent moonlight 


And mine at times is haunted 
By phantoms of the Past, 
As motionless as shadows 
By the silent moonlight cast. 


A form sits by the window, 
That is not seen by day, 
For as soon as the dawn ap- 
proaches 
It vanishes away. 


It sits there in the moonlight, 
Itself as pale and still, 

And points with its airy finger 
Across the window-sill. 


Without, before the window, 
There stands a gloomy pine, 
Whose boughs wave upward and 
downward 
As wave these thoughts of mine. 


And underneath its branches 
Is the grave of a little child, 
Who died upon life’s threshold, 
And never wept nor smiled. 


383 





What are ye, O pallid phantoms! 
That haunt my troubled brain? 
That vanish when day approaches, 

And at night return again? 


What are ye, O pallid phantoms! 
But the statues without breath, 
That stand on the bridge over- 

arching 
The silent river of death? 


THE MEETING 


AFTER So long an absence 
At last we meet again: 
Does the meeting give us plea- 
sure, 
Or does it give us pain? 


The tree of life has been shaken, 
And but few of us linger now, 
Like the Prophet’s two or three 

berries 
In the top of the uppermost 
bough. 


We cordially greet each other 
In the old, familiar tone; 
And we think, though we do not 
say it, 
How old and gray‘he is grown! 


We speak of a Merry Christmas 
And many a Happy New Year; 
But each in his heart is think- 

ing 
Of those that are not here. 


We speak of friends and their for- 
tunes, 
And of what they did and said, 
Till the dead alone seem living, 
And the living alone seem dead. 


And at last we hardly distinguish 
Between the ghosts and the 
guests ; 
And a mist and shadow of sad- 
ness 
Steals over our merriest jests. 


384 





VOX POPULI 


WHEN Mazarvan the Magician 
Journeyed westward through 
Cathay, 
Nothing heard he but the praises 
Of Badoura on his way. 


But the lessening rumor ended 
When he came to Khaledan, 
There the folk were talking only 

Of Prince Camaralzaman. 


So it happens with the poets: 
Every province hath its own; 

Camaralzaman is famous 
Where Badoura is unknown. 


THE CASTLE-BUILDER 


A GENTLE boy, with soft and 
silken locks, 
A dreamy boy, with brown and 
tender eyes, 
A castle-builder, with his wooden 
blocks, 
And towers that touch imagi- 
nary skies. 


A fearless rider on his father’s 
knee, 
An eager listener unto stories 
told 
At the Round Table of the nursery, 
Of heroes and adventures mani- 
fold. 


There will be other towers for thee 
to build; 
There will be other steeds for 
thee to ride; 
There will be other legends, and 
all filled 
With greater marvels and more 
glorified. 


Build on, and make thy eastles 
high and fair, 
Rising and reaching upward to 
the skies; 





BIRDS OF PASSAGE 


-—S  ort 


Listen to voices in the upper air, 
Nor lose thy simple faith in my& 
teries. 


CHANGED 


FRoM the outskirts of the town, 
Where of old the mile-stone 
stood, 
Now a stranger, looking down, 
I behold the shadowy crown 
Of the dark and haunted wood. 


Ts it changed, or am I changed? 
Ah! the oaks are fresh and 
green, 

But the friends 
ranged 
Through their thickets are es 

tranged 
By the years that intervene. 


with whom [I 


Bright as ever flows the sea, 
Bright as ever shines the sun, 

But alas! they seem to me 

Not the sun that used to be, 
Not the tides that used to run, 


THE CHALLENGE 


I HAVE a vague remembrance 
Of a story, that is told 

In some ancient Spanish legend 
Or chronicle of old. 


It was when brave King San 
chez 
Was before Zamora slain, 
And his great besieging army 
Lay encamped upon the plain. 


Don Diego de Ordonez 
Sallied forth in front of all, 
And shouted loud his challenge 
To the warders on the wall. 


All the people of Zamora, 
Both the born and the unborn. 


AFTERMATH 


385 





As traitors did he challenge 
With taunting words of scorn. 


The living, in their houses, 
And in their graves, the dead! 
And the waters of their rivers, 
And their wine, and oil, and 
bread! 


There is a greater army, 

That besets us round with strife, 
A starving, humberless army, 

Aft all the gates of life. 


The poverty-stricken millions 
Who challenge our wine and 
bread, 
And impeach us all as traitors, 
Both the living and the dead. 


And whenever I sit at the ban- 
quet, 
Where the feast and song are 
high, 
Amid the mirth and the music 
I can hear that fearful cry. 


And hollow and haggard faces 
Look into the lighted hall, 

And wasted hands are extended 
To catch the crumbs that fall. 


For within there is light and 
plenty, 
And odors fill the air; 
But without there is cold and 
darkness, 
And hunger and despair. 


And there in the camp of fam- 
ine 
In wind and cold and rain, 
Christ, the great Lord of the army, 
Lies dead upon the plain! 


THE BROOK AND THE 
WAVE 


THE brooklet came from the moun- 
tain, 
As sang the bard of old, 
Running with feet of silver 
Over the sands of gold! 


Far away in the briny ocean 
There rolled a turbulent wave, 

Now singing along the sea-beach, 
Now howling along the cave. 


And the brooklet has found the 
billow, 
Though they flowed so far apart, 
And has filled with its freshness 
and sweetness 
That turbulent, bitter heart! 


AFTERMATH 
WHEN the summer fields are 
mown, 
When the birds are fledged and 
flown, 
And the dry leaves strew the 
path; 


With the falling of the snow, 

With the cawing of the crow, 

Once again the fields we mow 
And gather in the aftermath. 


Not the sweet, new grass with 
flowers 
Is this harvesting of ours ; 

Not the upland clover bloom ; 
But the rowen mixed with weeds, 
Tangled tufts from marsh and 

meads, 
Where the poppy drops its seeds 

In the silence and the gloom. 


386 


THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 





THE MASQUE 


1 


THE WORKSHOP OF HEPHZS- 
TUS 


HEPHZESTUS (standing before the 
statue of Pandora). 


Not fashioned out of gold, like 
Hera’s throne, 

Nor forged of iron like the thun- 
derbolts 

Of Zeus omnipotent, or other 
works 

Wrought by my hands at Lemnos 
or Olympus, 

But moulded in soft clay, that un- 
resisting 

Yields itself to the touch, this 
lovely form 

Before me stands, perfect in every 


part. 

Not Aphrodite’s self appeared 

more fair, 

‘When first upwafted by caressing 
winds 

She came to high Olympus, and the 
gods 10 


Paid homage to her beauty. Thus 
her hair 

Was cinctured; thus her floating 
drapery 

Was like a cloud about her, and 
her face 

Was radiant with the sunshine and 
the sea. 


THE VOICE OF ZEUS. 
[s thy work done, Hephestus? 


HEPHZESTUS. 
It is finished! 


THE VOICE. 

Not finished till I breathe the 
breath of life 

Into her nostrils, and she moves 
and speaks. 





OF PANDORA 


HEPHESTUS. 


Will she become immortal like 
ourselves ? 


THE VOICE. 

The form that thou hast fashioned 
out of clay 

Is of the earth and mortal ; but the 


spirit, 2G 

The life, the exhalation of my 
breath, 

Is of diviner essence and immor- 
tal. 

The gods shall shower on her their 
benefactions, 


She shall possess all gifts: the 
gift of song, 

The gift of eloquence, the gift of 
beauty, 

The fascination and the nameless 
eharm 

That shall lead all men captive. 


HEPHA&STUS. 
Wherefore ? wherefore ? 


A wind shakes the house. ° 


I hear the rushing of a mighty 
wind 

Through all the halls and cham- 
bers of my house! 

Her parted lips inhale it, and her 
bosom 30 

Heaves with the inspiration. Asa 
reed 

Beside a river in the rippling cur- 
rent 

Bends to and fro, she bows or lifts 
her head. 

She gazes round about as if 
amazed; 

She is alive; she breathes, but yet 
she speaks not! 


PANDORA descends from the 
pedestal. 


THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 


387 





CHORUS OF THE GRACES 


AGLATA. 


In the workshop of Hephestus 
What is this I see? 

Have the Gods to four increased 

us 

Who were only three ? 

Beautiful in form and feature, 40 
Lovely as the day, 

Can there be so fair a creature 
Formed of common clay ? 


THALIA. 


O sweet, pale face! O lovely eyes 
of azure, 
Clear as the waters of a brook 
that run 
Limpid and laughing in the sum- 
mer sun! 
O golden hair, that like a miser’s 
treasure 
In its abundance overflows the 
measure ! 
O graceful form, that cloudlike 
floatest on 
With the soft, undulating gait of 
Ove 50 
Who moveth as if motion were a 
pleasure ! 
By what name shall I call thee? 
Nymph or Muse, 
Callirrhoé or Urania? 
sweet name 
Whose every syllable is a caress 
Would best befit thee; but I can- 
not choose. 
Nor do I care to choose; for still 
the same, 
Nameless or named, will be thy 
loveliness. 


Some 


EUPHROSYNE. 


Dowered with all celestial gifts, 
Skilled in every art 

That ennobles and uplifts 60 
And delights the heart, 

Fair on earth shall be thy fame 
As thy face is fair, 

and Pandora be the name 
Thou henceforth shalt bear. 


Il 
OLYMPUS 


HERMES (putting on his sandals). 

Much must he toil who serves the 
Immortal Gods, 

And I, who am their herald, most 


of all. 

No rest have I, nor respite. I no 
sooner 

Unclasp the wingéd sandals from 
my feet, 

Than I again must clasp them, and 
depart 70 

Upon some foolish errand. But to- 
day 

The errand is not foolish. Never 
yet 

With greater joy did I obey the 
summons 

That sends me earthward. I will 


fly so swiftly 

That my caduceus in the whistling 
air 

Shall make a sound like the Pan- 
dgean pipes, 

Cheating the shepherds ; for to-day 
I go,. 

Commissioned by high-thundering 
Zeus, to lead 

A maiden to Prometheus, in his 


tower, 

And by my cunning arguments 
persuade him 80 

To marry her. What mischief lies 
concealed 

In this design I know not; but I 
know 


Who thinks of marrying hath al- 
ready taken 

One step upon the road to peni- 
tence. 

Such embassies delight me. Forth 
T launch 

On the sustaining air, nor fear to 
fall 

Like Icarus, nor swerve aside like 
him 

Who drove amiss Hyperion’s fiery 
steeds. 


388 


THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 





T sink, I fly! The yielding element 

Folds itself round about me like 
an arm, go 

And holds me as a mother holds 
her child. 


III 


TOWER OF PROMETHEUS ON 
MOUNT CAUCASUS 


PROMETHEUS. 


T hear the trumpet of Alectryon 

Proclaim the dawn. The stars be- 
gin to fade, 

And all the heavens are full of pro- 
phecies 

And evil auguries. 
night 

I saw great Kronos rise; the cres- 
cent moon 

Sank through the mist, as if it 
were the scythe 

His parricidal hand had flung far 


Blood-red last 


down 
The western steeps. Oye Immor: 
tal Gods, 
What evil are ye plotting and con- 
triving ? 100 
HERMES and PANDORA at the 
threshold. 
PANDORA. 
I cannot cross th threshold. An 
unseen 
And icy hand repels me. These 


blank walls 
Oppress me with their weight! 


PROMETHEUS. 


Powerful ye are 
But not omnipotent. Ye cannot 
fight 
Against Necessity. The Fates con- 
trol you, 
As they do us, and so far we are 
equals! 


PANDORA. 


Motionless, passionless, compan- 
ionless, 


He sits there muttering in his 
beard. His voice 

Is like a river flowing under. 
ground! 109 


HERMES. 
Prometheus, hail! 


PROMETHEUS. 
Who calls me? 


HERMES. 


It is I. 
Dost thou not know me? 


PROMETHEUS. 
By thy wingéd cap 

And wingéd heels I know thee. 
Thou art Hermes, 

Captain of thieves! Hast thou 
again been stealing 

The heifers of Admetus in the 
sweet 

Meadows of asphodel? or Hera’s 
girdle? 

Or the earth-shaking trident of 
Poseidon? 


HERMES. 


And thou, Prometheus; say, hast 
thou again 

Been stealing fire from Helios’ 
chariot-wheels 

To light thy furnaces ? 


PROMETHEUS. 


Why comest thou hither 
So early in the dawn ? 


HERMES. 
The Immortal Gods 
Know naught of late or early. 
Zeus himself, 121 
The omnipotent hath sent me. 
PROMETHEUS. 
For what purpose 4 


HERMES. 
To bring this maiden to thee. 


THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 


389 





PROMETHEUS. 
I mistrust 
The Gods and all their gifts. 
they have sent her 
It is for no good purpose. 


HERMES. 


What disaster 
Could she bring on thy house, who 
is a woman? 


PROMETHEUS. 


The Gods are not my friends, nor 
am I theirs. 
Whatever comes’ from 
though in a shape 
As beautiful as this, is evil only. 
Who art thou ? 


them, 


PANDORA. 


One who, though to thee unknown, 
Yet knoweth thee. 


PROMETHEUS. 
How shouldst thou know me, wo- 
mah? 131 
PANDORA. 
Who knoweth not Prometheus the 
humane? 
PROMETHEUS. 


Prometheus the unfortunate; to 


whom 

Both Gods and men have shown 

, themselves ungrateful. 

When every spark was quenched 
on every hearth 

Throughout the earth, I brought 
to man the fire 

And all its ministrations. 
ward 

Hath been the rock and vulture. 


My re- 


HERMES. 
But the Gods 
At last relent and pardon. 
PROMETHEUS. 
They relent not; 


They pardon not; they are im- 
placable, 140 


If | Revengeful, unforgiving ! 


HERMES. 


As a pledge 

Of reconciliation they have sent to 
thee 

This divine being, to be thy com- 
panion, 

And bring into thy melancholy 
house 

The sunshine and the fragrance of 
her youth. 


PROMETHEUS. 


I need them not. I have within 
myself 

All that my heart desires; the 
ideal beauty 

Which the creative faculty of 
mind 

Fashions and follows in a thou. 
sand shapes 

More lovely than the real. My 
own thoughts 150 

Are my companions; my designs 
and labors 

And aspirations are my only 


friends. 
HERMES. 
Decide not rashly. The decision 
made 


Can never be recalled. The Gods 
implore not, 

Plead not, solicit not; they only 
offer ; 

Choice and occasion, which once 
being passed 

Return no more. 
cept the gift? 


Dost thou ae- 


PROMETHEUS. 

No gift of theirs, in whatsoever 
shape : 

It comes to me, with whatsoever 
charm 

To fascinate my sense, will I re- 
ceive. 160 

Leave me. 


399 


THE MASQUE 


OF PANDORA 





PANDORA. 
Let us go hence. I will not stay. 


HERMES. 

We leave thee to thy vacant 
dreams, and all 

The silence and the solitude of 
thought, 

The endless bitterness of unbe- 
lief, 

The loneliness of existence with- 
out love. 


CHORUS OF THE FATES. 


CLOTHO. 


How the Titan, the defiant, 

The self-centred, self-reliant, 
Wrapped in visions and illusions, 
Robs himself of life’s best gifts! 
Till by all the storm-winds shaken, 
By the blast of fate o’ertaken, 171 
Hopeless, helpless, and forsaken, 
In the mists of his confusions 

To the reefs of doom he drifts! 


LACHESIS. 


Sorely tried and sorely tempted, 
From no agonies exempted, 
In the penance of his trial, 
And the discipline of pain; 
Often by illusions cheated, 
Often baffled and defeated 
In the tasks to be completed, 
He, by toil and self-denial, 
To the highest shall attain. 


180 


ATROPOS. 


Tempt no more the noble schemer; 
Bear unto some idle dreamer 
This new toy and fascination, 
This new dalliance and delight! 
To the garden where reposes 
Epimetheus crowned with roses, 
To the door that never closes 190 
Upon pleasure and temptation, 
Bring this vision of the night! 


IV 
THE AIR 


HERMES (returning to Olympus). 


AS lonely as the tower that he in. 
habits, 

As firm and cold as are the crags 
about him, 

Prometheus stands. 
bolts of Zeus 

Alone can move him; but the 
tender heart 

Of Epimetheus, burning at white 
heat, 

Hammers and flames like all his 
brother’s forges! 

Now as an arrow from Hyperion’s 


The thunder- 


bow, 
My errand done, I fly, I float, I 
soar 200 


Into the air, returning to Olympus. 

O joy of motion! O delight to 
cleave 

The infinite realms of space, the 
liquid ether, 

Through the warm sunshine and 
the cooling cloud, 

Myself as light as sunbeam or as 
cloud! 

With one touch of my swift and 
winged feet, 

I spurn the solid earth, and leave 
it rocking 

As rocks the bough from which a 
bird takes wing. 


Vv 


THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS 


EPIMETHEUS. 
Beautiful apparition! go not 
hence! 
Surely thou art a Goddess, for thy 
voice 21a 


Ts a celestial melody, and thy form 
Self-poised as if it floated on the 
air | 


THE MASQUE 


OF PANDORA 301 





PANDORA. 


No Goddess am I, nor of heavenly 
birth, 

But a mere woman fashioned out 
of clay 

And mortal as the rest. 


EPIMETHEUS. 


Thy face is fair ; 
There is a wonder in thine azure 
eyes 
That fascinates me. 
presence seems 
A soft desire, a breathing thought 
of love. 
Say, would thy star like Merope’s 
grow dim 
If thou shouldst wed beneath 
thee ? 


Thy whole 


PANDORA. 


Ask me not; 
I cannot answer thee. I only 
know 221 
The Gods have sent me hither. 


EPIMETHEUS. 


T believe, 

And thus believing am most for- 
tunate. 

It was not Hermes led thee here, 
but Eros, 

And swifter than his arrows were 
thine eyes 

In wounding me. There was no 
moment’s space 

Between my seeing thee and lov- 


ing thee. 
Oh, what a telltale face thou hast! 
Again 
I see the wonder in thy tender 
eyes. 
PANDORA. 
They do but answer to the love in 
thine, 230 
Yet secretly I wonder thou 


shouldst love me. 
Thou knowest me not, 


EPIMETHEUS. 
Perhaps I know thee better 
Than had I known thee longer, 
Yet it seems 
That I have always known thee, 
and but now 
Have found thee. 
waiting long, 


Ah, I have been 


PANDORA. -— 


How beautiful is thishouse! The 
atmosphere 

Breathes rest and comfort, and 
the many chambers 

Seem full of welcomes. 


EPIMETHEUS. 


They not only seem, 

But truly are. This dwelling and 
its master 239 
Belong to thee. 


PANDORA, 


Here let me stay forever } 
There is a spell upon me. 


EPIMETHEUS, 


Thou thyself 
Art the enchantress, and I feel thy 
power 
Envelop me, and wrap my souland’ 
sense 
In an Elysian dream. 


PANDORA. 


Oh, let me stay. 

How beautiful are all things round 
about me, 

Multiplied by the mirrors on the 
walls! ; 

What treasures hast thou here! 
Yon oaken chest, 

Carven with figures and embossed 
with gold, 

Is wonderful to look upon! What 
choice 

And precious things dost thou 
keep hidden in it? 250 


EPIMETHEUS. 
I know not, ’Tis a mystery. 


392 THE MASQUE 


OF PANDORA 


———— 





PANDORA. 


Hast thou never 
Lifted the lid? 


EPIMETHEUS. 


The oracle forbids. 

Safely concealed there from all 
mortal eyes 

Forever sleeps the secret of the 
Gods, 

Seek not to know what they have 
hidden from thee, 

Till they themselves reveal it. 


PANDORA. 
As thou wilt. 


EPIMETHEUS. 


Let us go forth from this myste- 
rious place. 

The garden walks are pleasant at 
this hour; 

The nightingales among the shel- 
tering boughs 

Of populous and many - nested 
trees 260 

Shall teach me how to woo thee, 
and shall tell me 

By what resistless charms or in- 
cantations 

They won their mates. 


PANDORA, 
Thou dost not need a teacher. 


They go out. 


CHORUS OF THE EUMENIDES. 


What the Immortals 
Confide to thy keeping, 
Tell unto no man; 
Waking or sleeping, 
Closed be thy portals 
To friend as to foeman. 


Silence conceals it; 

The word that is spoken 
Betrays and reveals it; 

By breath or by token 

The charm may be broken. 


270 


With shafts of their splendors 
The Gods unforgiving 
Pursue the offenders, 

The dead and the living! 
Fortune forsakes them, 

Nor earth shall abide them, 
Nor Tartarus hide them ; 
Swift wrath overtakes them. 


28a 


With useless endeavor, 
Forever, forever, 

Is Sisyphus rolling 

His stone up the mountain! 
Immersed in the fountain, 
Tantalus tastes not 

The water that wastes not! 
Through ages increasing 
The pangs that aftlict him, 
With motions unceasing 
The wheel of Ixion 

Shall torture its victim ! 


290 


VI 
IN THE GARDEN 


EPIMETHEUS. 


Yon snow-white cloud that sails 
sublime in ether 

Is but the sovereign Zeus, who 
like a Swan 

Flies to fair-ankled Leda! 


PANDORA. 
Or perchance 
Ixion’s cloud, the shadowy shape 
of Hera, 
That bore the Centaurs. 


EPIMETHEUS. 
The divine and human. 


CHORUS OF BIRDS. 


Gently swaying to and fro, 300 
Rocked by all the winds that blow, 
Bright with sunshine from above, 
Dark with shadow from below, 
Beak to beak and breast to breast 
In the cradle of their nest, 

Lie the fledglings of our love. 





THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 393 
ECHO. EPIMETHEUS. 
Love! love! | The pipe of Pan out of these reeds 
is made, 330 
EPIMETHEUS. And when he plays it to the shep- 
Hark! listen! Hear how sweetly herds 
overhead They pity him, so mournful is the 
The feathered flute-players pipe sound. 
their songs of love, Be thou not coy and cold as Syrinx 
And Echo answers, love and only was. 
love. 310 PANDORA. 
CHORUS OF BIRDS. Nor thou as Pan be rude and man- 
nerless. 


Every flutter of the wing, 
Every note of song we sing, 
Every murmur, every tone, 
Is of love and love alone. 


ECHO. 
Love alone! 
EPIMETHEUS. 
Who would not love, if loving she 
might be 
Changed like Callisto to a star in 
heaven ? 
PANDORA. 
Ah, who would love, if loving she 
might be 
Like Semele consumed and burnt 
to ashes ? 
EPIMETHEUS. 
Whence knowest thou these 
stories ? 


PANDORA. 


Hermes taught me; 
He told me all the history of the 
Gods. 321 


CHORUS OF REEDS. 


Evermore a sound shall be 

In the reeds of Arcady, 

Evermore a low lament 

Of unrest and discontent. 

As the story is retold 

Of the nymph so coy and cold, 

Who with frightened feet out- 
ran 

The pursuing steps of Pan. 


PROMETHEUS (without). 


Ho! Epimetheus ! 


EPIMETHEUS. 
’T is my brother’s voice ; 
A sound unwelcome and inoppor- 
tune 
As was the braying of Silenus’ ass, 
Once heard in Cybele’s garden. 


PANDORA. 
Let me go. 
I would not be found here. [I 
would not see him. 
She escapes among the trees. 


CHORUS OF DRYADES. 


Haste and hide thee, 

Ere too late, 

In these thickets intricate ; 
Lest Prometheus 

See and chide thee, 

Lest some hurt 

Or harm betide thee, 

Haste and hide thee! 


340 


_ PROMETHEUS (entering). 
Who was it fled from here? I saw 
a Shape 
Flitting among the trees. 


EPIMETHEUS. 
It was Pandora. 


PROMETHEUS. 
O Epimetheus! Is it then in vain 
That I have warned thee? Let 
me now implore. 351 


394 THE MASQUE 


Thou harborest in thy house a 
dangerous guest. 


EPIMETHEUS. 


Whom the Gods love they honor 
with such guests. 


PROMETHEUS. 


Whom the Gods would destroy they 
first make mad. 


EPIMETHEUS. 


Shall I refuse the gifts they send 
to me ? 


PROMETHEUS. 


Reject all gifts that come from 
higher powers. 


EPIMETHEUTS. 


Such gifts as this are not to be re- 
jected. 


PROMETHEUS. 


Make not thyself the slave of any 
woman. 


EPIMETHEUS. 


Make not thyself the judge of any 
mah. 


PROMETHEUS. 


I judge thee not; for thou art 
more than man; 360 

Thou art descended from Titanic 
race, 

And hast a Titan’s strength and 
faculties 

That make thee godlike; and thou 
sittest here 

Like Heracles spinning Omphale’s 
flax, 

And beaten with her sandals. 


EPIMETHEUS. 


O my brother ! 
Thou drivest me to madness with 
thy taunts. 


PROMETHEDS. 


And me thou drivest to madness: 
with thy follies. 


OF PANDORA 





Come with me tomy tower on Cau-e 
casus : 

See there my forges in the roaring 
caverns, 

Beneficent to man, and tastethe joy 


That springs from labor. Read 
with me the stars, 371 

And learn the virtues that lie hid- 
den in plants, 

And all things that are useful. 


EPIMETHEUS. 


O my brother? 

Tam not as thou art. Thou dost 
inherit 

Our father’s strength, and I our 
mother’s weakness: 

The softness of the Oceanides, 

The yielding nature that cannot 
resist. 


PROMETHEUS. 
Because thou wilt not. 


EPIMETHEUS. 
Nay; because I cannot. 


PROMETHEUS. 


Assert thyself; rise up to thy full 
height ; 

Shake from thy soul these dreams 
effeminate, 380 

These passions born of indolence 
and ease. 

Resolve, and thou art free. 
breathe the air 

Of mountains, and their unap- 
proachable summits 

Will lift thee to the level of them- 
selves. 


But 


EPIMETHEUS. 

The roar of forests and of water: 
falls, 

The rushing of a mighty wind, 
with loud 

And undistinguishable voices call 
ing, 

Are in my ear! 


PROMETHEUS. 
Oh, listen and obey. 


THE MASQUE 


OF PANDORA 395 





EPIMETHEUS. 
Thou leadest me as a child. 
low thee. 
They go out. 


T fol- 


CHORUS OF OREADES, 


Centuries old are the mountains ; 

Their foreheads wrinkled and 
rifted 391 

Helios crowns by day, 

Pallid Selene by night; 

From their bosoms uptossed 

The snows are driven and drifted, 

Like Tithonus’ beard 

Streaming dishevelled and white. 


Thunder and tempest of wind 
Their trumpets blow in the vast- 
ness ; 
Phantoms of mist and rain, 
Cloud and the shadow of cloud, 
Pass and repass by the gates 
Of their inaccessible fastness ; 
Ever unmoved they stand; 
Solemn, eternal, and proud. 


400 


VOICES OF THE WATERS. 


Flooded by rain and snow 

In their inexhaustible sources, 
Swollen by affluent streams 
Hurrying onward and hurled 
Headlong over the crags, 

The impetuous water-courses 
Rush and roar and plunge 
Down to the nethermost world. 


410 


Say, have the solid rocks 
Into streams of silver been melted, 
Flowing over the plains, 
Spreading to lakes fn the fields ? 
Or have the mountains, the giants, 
‘The ice-helmed, the forest-belted, 
Scattered theirarms abroad; 420 
Flung in the meadows their 
shields ? 


VOICES OF THE WINDS. 


High on their turreted cliffs 

That bolts of thunder have shat- 
tered, 

Storm-winds muster and blow 


Trumpets of terrible breath; 

Then from the gateways rush, 

And before them routed and scat- 
tered 

Sullen the cloud-rack flies, 

Pale with the pallor of death. 


Onward the hurricane rides, 430 

And flee for shelter the shep- 
herds; 

White are the frightened leaves, 

Harvests with terror are white; 

Panic seizes the herds, 

And even the lions and leopards, 

Prowling no longer for prey, 

Crouch in their caverns with 
fright. 


VOICES OF THE FORESTS. 


Guarding the mountains around 
Majestic the forests are standing, 
Bright are their crested helms, 
Dark is their armor of leaves; 441 
Filled with the breath of freedom 
Each bosom subsiding, expanding, 
Now like the ocean sinks, 

Now like the ocean upheaves. 


Planted firm on‘the rock, 

With foreheads stern and defiant, 
Loud they shout to the winds, 
Loud to the tempest they call; 
Naught but Olympian thunders, 
That blasted Titan and Giant, 451 
Them can uproot and o’erthrow, 
Shaking the earth with their fall. 


CHORUS OF OREADES. 


These are the Voices Three 

Of winds and forests and foun- 
tains, 

Voices of earth and of air, 

Murmur and rushing of streams, 

Making together one sound, 

The mysterious voice of the moun- 
tains, 

Waking the sluggard that sleeps, 

Waking the dreamer of dreams. 46r 


These are the Voices Three, 
That speak of endless endeavor, 


306 THE MASQUE 





Speak of endurance and strength, 
Triumph and fulness of fame, 
Sounding about the world, 

An inspiration forever, 

Stirring the hearts of men, 
Shaping their end and their aim, 


VII 
THE HOUSE OF EPIMETHEUS 


PANDORA. 


Left to myself I wander as I will, 

And as my fancy leads me, through 
this house, 471 

Nor could I ask a dwelling more 
complete 

Were I indeed the Goddess that 
he deems me. 

No mansion of Olympus, framed 
to be 

The habitation of the Immortal 
Gods, 

Can be more beautiful. 
is mine, 

And more than this, the love 
wherewith he crowns me. 

As ifimpelled by powers invisible 

And irresistible, my steps return 

Unto this spacious hall. All corri- 


And this 


dors 480 

And passages lead hither, and all 
doors 

But open into it. Yon mysterious 
chest 

Attracts and fascinates me. 
Would I knew 

What there lies hidden! But the 
oracle 

Forbids. Ah me! The secret then 
is safe. 

So would it be if it were in my 
keeping. 


A crowd of shadowy faces from 
the mirrors 

That line these walls are watching 
me. I dare not 

Lift up the lid. A hundred times 
the act 

Would be repeated, and the secret 
seen 490 


OF PANDORA 


| et 


By twice a hundred incorporeal 
eyes. 


She walks to the other side of the 
hall. 


My feet are weary, wandering to 
and fro, 

My eyes with seeing and my heart 
with waiting. 

I will lie here and rest till he re- 
turns, 

Who is my dawn, my day, my 
Helios. 


Throws herself upon a couch, and 
Jalls asleep. 


ZEPHYRUS. 


Come from thy caverns dark and 
deep, 

O son of Erebus and Night; 

All sense of hearing and of sight 

Enfold in the serene delight 

And quietude of sleep! 500 

Set all thy silent sentinels . 

To bar and guard the Ivory Gate, 

And keep the evil dreams of fate 

And falsehood and infernal hate 

Imprisoned in their cells. 


But open wide the Gate of Horn, 

Whence, beautiful as planets, rise 

The dreams of truth, with starry 
eyes, 

And all the wondrous prophecies 

And visions of the morn. 51a 


CHORUS OF DREAMS FROM THE 
IVORY GATE. 


Ye sentinels of sleep, 
It is in vain ye keep 
Your drowsy watch before the 
Ivory Gate ; 
Though closed the portal seems, 
The airy feet of dreams 
Ye cannot thus in walls incarcer 
ate. 


We phantoms are and dreams 
Born by Tartarean streams, 


THE MASQUE OF PANDORA 397 





As ministers of the infernal pow- 
ers; 
O son of Erebus 
And Night, behold! we thus 
Elude your watchful warders on 
the towers! 


520 


From gloomy Tartarus 
The Fates have summoned us 
To whisper in her ear, who lies 
asleep, 
A tale to fan the fire 
Of her insane desire 
To know a secret that the Gods 
would keep. 


This passion, in their ire, 
The Gods themselves inspire, 
To vex mankind with evils mani- 
fold, 531 
So that disease and pain 
O’er the whole earth may reign, 
And nevermore return the Age of 
Gold. 


PANDORA (waking). 

A voice said in my sleep: ‘ Do not 
delay: 

Do not delay ; the golden moments 
fly! 

The oracle hath forbidden; yet 
not thee 

Doth it forbid, but Epimetheus 
only !? 

I am alone. 
mirrors 

Are but the shadows and phan- 
toms of myself ; 540 

They cannot help nor hinder. No 
one sees me, . 

Save the all-seeing Gods, who, 
knowing good 

And knowing evil, have created 
me 

Such as I am, and filled me with 
desire 

Of knowing good and evil like 
themselves. 


These faces in the 


She approaches the chest. 
L hesitate no longer. Weal or woe, 


Or life or death, the moment shall 
decide. 


She lifts the lid. A dense mist 
rises from the chest, and fills the 
room. PANDORA falls senseless 
onthe floor. Storm without. 


CHORUS OF DREAMS FROM THE 
GATE OF HORN. 


Yes, the moment shall decide! 
It already hath decided; 

And the secret once confided 
To the keeping of the Titan 
Now is flying far and wide, 
Whispered, told on every side, 
To disquiet and to frighten. 


55° 


Fever of the heart and brain, 

Sorrow, pestilence, and pain, 

Moans of anguish, maniac laugh- 
ter, 

All the evils that hereafter 

Shall afflict and vex mankind, 

All into the air have risen 560 

From the chambers of their pris- 
on; 

Only Hope remains behind. 


Vill 
IN THE GARDEN 


EPIMETHEUS. 


The storm is past, but it hath left 
behind it 

Ruin and _ desolation. 
walks 

Are strewn with shattered boughs; 
the birds are silent; 

The flowers, downtrodden by the 
wind, lie dead ; 

The swollen rivulet sobs with se- 
cret pain ; 

The melancholy reeds whisper 
together | 

As ifsome dreadful deed had been 
committed 

They dare not name, and all the 
air is heavy 57U 


All the 


308 THE MASQUE 


~_——- 


With an unspoken sorrow: Pre- 
monitions, 

Foreshadowings of some terrible 
disaster 

Oppress my heart. 


avert the omen! 


Ye Gods, 


PANDORA, coming from the house. 
O Epimetheus, I no longer dare 
To lift mine eyes to thine, nor hear 
thy voice, 
Being no longer worthy of thy love. 
EPIMETHEUS. 
What hast thou done? 


PANDORA. 
Forgive me not, but kill me. 


EPIMETHEUS. 
What hast thou done ? 


PANDORA. 
I pray for death, not pardon. 


EPIMETHEUS. 
What hast thou done? 


PANDORA. 
I dare not speak of it. 


EPIMETHEUS. 
Thy pallor and thy silence terrify 
me ! 580 
PANDORA. 


I have brought wrath and ruin on 
thy house! 

My heart hath braved the oracle 
that guarded 

The fatal secret from us, and my 
hand 

Lifted the lid of the mysterious 
chest! 


EPIMETHEUS. 
Then allis lost! I am indeed un- 
done. 
PANDORA. 


i pray for punishment, and not for 
pardon. 





‘The greatest punishment. 


OF PANDORA 


EPIMETHEUS. 
Mine is the fault, not thine. 
me shall fall 
The vengeance of the Gods, for I 


On 


betrayed 

Their secret when, in evil hour, 
I said 

It was a secret; when, in evi 
hour, 59a 

I left thee here alone to this temp- 
tation. 


Why did I leave thee ? 


PANDORA. 


Why didst thou return ? 

Eternal absence would have been 
to me 

To be 
left alone 

And face to face with my own 
crime, had been 

Just retribution. Upon me, ye 
Gods, 

Let all your vengeance fall! 


EPIMETHEUS. 


On thee and me. 

I do not love thee less for what is 
done, 

And cannot be undone. 
weakness 

Hath brought thee nearer to me, 
and henceforth 600 

My love will have a sense of pity 
in it, 

Making it less a worship than be- 
fore. 


Thy very 


PANDORA. 

Pity me not; pity is degradation. 
Love me and kill me. ‘ 
EPIMETHEUS. 

Beautiful Pandorat 
Thou art a Goddess still! 
PANDORA. 


I ama woman, 

And the insurgent demon in my 
nature, 

That made me brave the oracle 
revolts 


~ 


THE HANGING OF THE CRANE 





At pity and compassion. Let me 
die ; 
What else remains for me? 


EPIMETHEUS. 


Youth, hope, and love: 
To build a new life on a ruined 


life, 610 
To make the future fairer than the 
past, 


And make the past appear a 
troubled dream. 

Even now in passing through the 
garden walks 

Upon the ground I saw a fallen 
nest 

Ruined and full of rain; and over 
me 

Beheld the uncomplaining birds 
already 

Busy in building a new habitation. 


PANDORA. 
Auspicious omen! 


EPIMETHEUS. 


May the Eumenides 
Put out their torches and behold 


us not, 
And fling away their whips of scor- 
pions 620 


And touch us not. 


THRE HANGING 


I 

THE lights are out, and gone are 
all the guests 

That thronging came with mervi- 
ment and jests 

To celebrate the Hanging of the 

Crane 

In the new house, — into the night 
are gone; 

But still the fire upon the hearth 
burns on, 

And I alone remain. 


399 





PANDORA. 
Me let them punish. 
Only through punishment of our 
evil deeds, 
Only through suifering, are we 
reconciled 
To the immortal Gods and to our. 
selves. 


CHORUS OF THE EUMENIDES, 


Never shall souls like these 
Hscape the Eumenides, 
The daughters dark of Acheron 
and Night! 
Unquenched our torches glare, 
Our scourges in the air 
Send forth prophetic sounds be- 
fore they smite. 630 


Never by lapse of time 
The soul defaced by crime 
Into its former self returns again; 
For every guilty deed 
Holds in itself the seed 
Of retribution and undying pain. 


Never shall be the loss 
Restored, till Helios 
Hath purified them with his hea- 
venly fires ; 
Then what was lost is won, 
And the new life begun, 641 
Kindled with nobler passions and 
desires, 


OF THE CRANE 


O fortunate, O happy day, 

When a new household finds its 
place 

Among the myriad homes of 
-earth, 

Like a new star just sprung to 
birth, 10 

And rolled on its harmonious 
way 

Into the boundless realms of 
space! 


400 





So said the guests in speech and 
song, 

As in the chimney, burning bright, 

We hung the iron crane to-night, 

And merry was the feast and long. 


II 


And now I sit and muse on what 
may be, 
And in my vision see, or seem to 
see, 
Through floating vapors inter- 
fused with light, 
Shapes indeterminate, that gleam 


and fade, 20 
As shadows passing into gee 
shade 


Sink and elude the sight. 


For two alone, there in the hall, 

Is spread the table round and 
small ; 

Upon the polished silver shine 

The evening lamps, but, more 
divine, 

The light of love shines over all: 

Of love, that says not mine and 
thine, 

But ours, for ours is thine and 
mine. 


They want no guests, to come 
between 30 

Their tender glances like a 
sereen, 

And tell them tales of land and 
sea, 

And whatsoever may betide 

The great, forgotten world out- 
side; 

They want no guests; they needs 
must be 

Each other’s own best company. 


III 


The picture fades; as at a village 
fair 
& showman’s views, 
into air, 
Again appear transfigured on 
\ the screen, 


dissolving 


THE HANGING OF THE CRANE 





ee} 
So in my fancy this ; and now Rie 
more, 
In part transfigured, through the 
open door 


Appears the selfsame scene. 


Seated, I see the two again, 

But not alone; they entertain 

A little angel unaware, 

With face as round as is the 
moon, 

A royal guest with flaxen hair, 

Who, throned upon his lofty 


chair, 

Drums on the table with his 
spoon, 

Then drops it careless on the 
floor, 50 

To grasp at things unseen be. 
fore. 


Are these celestial manners 7 
these 

The ways that win, the arts that 
please ? 

Ah yes; consider well the guest, 

And whatsoe’er he does seems 
best; 

He ruleth by the right divine 

Of helplessness, so lately born 

In purple chambers of the morn, 

AS sovereign over thee and thine, 

He speaketh not; and yet there 
lies 60 

A conversation in his eyes; 

The golden silence of the Greek, 

The gravest wisdom of the wise, 

Not spoken in language, but in 
looks 

More legible than printed books, 

As if he could but would not 
speak. 

And now, O monarch absolute, 

Thy power is put to proof; for,lo! 

Resistless, fathomless, and slow 

The nurse comes rustling like 
the sea, 73 

And pushes back thy chair and 
thee, 

And so good night to King 
Canute. 


THE HANGING OF THE CRANE 401 





Tv 
As one who walking in a forest 
sees 
A lovely landscape through the 
parted trees, 
Then sees it not, for boughs that 
intervene; 
Or as we see the moon sometimes 
revealed 
Through drifting clouds, and then 
again concealed, 
So I behold the scene. 


There are two guests at table 


now; 
The king, deposed and older 
grown, 80 


No longer occupies the throne, — 

The crown is on his sister’s 
brow; 

A Princess from the Fairy Isles, 

The very pattern girl of girls, 

All covered and embowered in 
curls, ; 

Rose-tinted from the Isle of 
Flowers, 

And sailing with soft, silken sails 

From far-off Dreamland into 
ours. 

Above their bowls with rims of 
blue 

Four azure eyes of deeper hue 90 

Are looking, dreamy with de- 
light; 

Limpid as planets that emerge 

Above the ocean’s rounded verge, 

Soft-shining through the summer 
night. 

Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing 
see 

Beyond the horizon of their 
bowls ; 

Nor care they for the world that 
rolls 

With all its freight of troubled 
souls 

Into the days that are to be. 


Vv 


Again the tossing boughs shut out 
the scene, 100 


Again the drifting vapors inter. 


vene, 
And the moon’s pallid disk is 
hidden quite ; 


And now I see the table wider 


grown, 


As round a pebble into water 


thrown 
Dilates a ring of light. 


I see the table wider grown, 

I see it garlanded with guests, 
As if fair Ariadne’s Crown 

Out of the sky had fallen down; 
Maidens within whose tender 


breasts ; 110 
A thousand restless hopes and 
fears, 
Forth reaching to the coming 
years, 


Flutter awhile, then quiet lie, 

Like timid birds that fain would 
fly, 

But do not dare to leave their 
nests ; — 

And youths, whointheir strength 
elate 

Challenge the van and front of 
fate, 

Eager as champions to be 

In the divine knight-errantry 

Of youth, that travels sea and 
land 120 

Seeking adventures, or pursues, 

Through cities, and through 
solitudes 

Frequented by the lyric Muse, 

The phantom with the beckon 
ing hand, 

That still allures and still eludes. 

O sweet illusions of the brain! 

O sudden thrills of fire and 
frost! 

The world is bright while ye re- 
main, 

And dark and dead when ye are 
lost! 


vi 


The meadow-brook, that seemeth 


to stand still. 120 


(02 THE HANGING OF THE CRANE 





Quickens its current as it nears 
the mill; 
And so the stream of Time that 


lingereth 

In level places, and so dull ap- 
pears, 

Runs with a swifter current as it 
nears 


The gloomy mills of Death. 


And now, like the magician’s 


seroll, 

That in the owner’s keeping 
shrinks 

With every wish he speaks or 
thinks, 

Till the last wish consumes the 
whole, 139 


The table dwindles, and again 

I see the two alone remain. 

The crown of stars is broken in 
parts; 

Its jewels, brighter than the 
day, 


Have one by one been stolen 


away 
To shine in other homes and 
hearts. 
One is a wanderer now afar 
In Ceylon or in Zanzibar, 
Or sunny regions of Cathay ; 
And one is in the boisterous 


camp 
Mid clink of arms and horses’ 
tramp, 150 


And battle’s terrible array. 

I see the patient mother read, 

With aching heart, of wrecks 
that float 

Disabled on those seas remote, 

Or of some great heroic deed 


On battle-fields, where thousands | 


bleed 
To lift one hero into fame. 
Anxious she bends her graceful 
head 
Above these chronicles of pain, 
And trembles with a secret dread 
Lest there among the drowned 
or slain 161 
She find the one beloved name. 


VII 


After a day of cloud and wind and 


rain 


Sometimes the setting sun breaks 


out again, 
And, touching all the darksome 
woods with light, 


Smiles on the fields, until they 


laugh and sing, 


Then like aruby from the horizon’s 


ring 
Drops down into the night. 


What see I now? The night is 


fair, 

The storm of grief, the clouds of 
care, 170 

The wind, the rain, have passed 
away; 

The lamps are lit, the fires burn 
bright, 

The house is full of life and 
light; 


It is the Golden Wedding day. 

The guests come thronging in 
once more, 

Quick footsteps sound along the 
floor, 

The trooping children crowd the 
stair, 

And in and out and everywhere 

Flashes along the corridor 

The sunshine of their golden 
hair. 180 

On the round table in the hall 

Another Ariadne’s Crown 

Out of the sky hath fallen downs 

More than one Monarch of the 
Moon 

Is drumming with his silver 
spoon; 

The light of love shines oves 
all. 


O fortunate, O happy day: 

The people sing, the people 
Say. 

The ancient bridegroom and the 
bride, 


MORITURI SALUTAMUS 





Smiling contented and serene 190 


Upon the blithe, bewildering 
scene, 

Behold, well pleased, on every 
side 

Their forms and features multi- 
plied, 


403 


——— 7, 


Ag the reflection of a light 

Between two burnished mirrors 
gleams, 

Or lamps upon a bridge at night 

Stretch on and on before the 
sight, 

Till the long vista endless seems. 


MORITURI SALUTAMUS 


PORM FOR THE FIFTIETH 
ANNIVERSARY OF THE 
CLASS OF 1825 IN BOWDOIN 
COLLEGE 


Sempora labuntur, tacitisque senes- 
cimus annis, 
Et fugiunt freno non remorante 
dies. 
Ovin, Fastorum, Lib. vi. 


*O CHSAR, we who are about to 
die 

Saiute you!’ was the gladiators’ 
cry 

In the arena, standing face to 
face 

With death and with the Roman 
populace. 


O ye familiar scenes,— ye groves 
of pine, 

That once were mine and are no 
longer mine, — 

Thou river, widening through the 
meadows green 

To the vast sea, so near and yet 
unseen, — 

Ye halls, in whose seclusion and 
repose 

Phantoms of fame, like exhala- 
tions, rose 10 

Andé vanished, — we who are about 
to die, 

Salute you; earth and air and sea 
and sky, 

And the Imperial Sun that scat- 
ters down 

His sovereign splendors 
grove and town. 


upon 





Ye do not answer us! ye do not 


hear! 

We are forgotten; and in your 
austere 

And calm indifference, ye little 
care 


Whether we come or go, or whence 
or where. 

What passing generations fill these 
halls, 

What passing voices echo from 
these walls, 20 

Ye heed not; we are only as the 
blast, 

A moment heard, and then forever 
past. 


Not so the teachers who in earlier 
days 

Led our bewildered feet through 
learning’s maze ; 

They answer us — alas! what have 
I said ? 

What greetings come there from 
the voiceless dead ? 

What salutation, welcome, or re- 
ply ? 

What pressure from the hands 
that lifeless lie ? 

They are no longer here; they all 


are gone 

Into the land of shadows, — all 
save one. 30 

Honor and reverence, and the good 
repute 

That follows faithful service as its 
fruit, 

Be unto him, whom living we sa 
lute. 


404 


MORITURI SALUTAMUS 





The great Italian poet, when he 


made 

His dreadful journey to the realms 
of shade, 

Met there the old instructor of his 
youth, 

And cried in tones of pity and of 
ruth: 

*Oh, never from the memory of my 
heart 

Your dear, paternal image shall 
depart, 


Who while on earth, ere yet by 


death surprised, 40. 


Taught me how mortals are im- 
mortalized ; 

How gratefulam I for that patient 
care 

All my life long my language shall 
declare.’ 


To-day we make the poet’s words 
our Own, 

And utter them in plaintive under- 
tone; 

Nor to the living only be they said, 

But to the other living called the 
dead, 

Whose dear, paternal images ap- 
pear 

Not wrapped in gloom, but robed 
in sunshine here; 

Whose simple lives, complete and 
without flaw, 50 

Were part and parcel of great Na- 
ture’s law; 

Who said not to their Lord, as if 
afraid, 

‘Here is thy talent in a napkin 
laid,’ 

But labored in their sphere, as 
men who live 


In the delight that work alone can 
give. 

Peace be to them; eternal peace 
and rest, 

And the fulfilment of the great 
behest : 

‘Ye have been faithful over a few 
things, 

Dver ten cities shall ye reign as 
kings.’ 


And ye who fill the places we once 


filled, 60 
And follow in the furrows that we 
tilled, 


Young men, whose generous hearts 
are beating high, 

We who are old, and are about to 
die, 

Salute you; hail you; take your 
hands in ours, 

And crown you with our welcome 
as with flowers! 


How beautiful is youth! how 
bright it gleams 
With its illusions, aspirations, 


dreams! , 

Book of Beginnings, Story without 
End, 

Each maid a heroine, and each 
man a friend! 

Aladdin’s Lamp, and Fortunatus’ 
Purse, 70 

That holds the treasures of the 
universe! 

All possibilities are in its hands, 

No danger daunts it, and no foe 
withstands; 

In its sublime audacity of faith, 

‘Be thou removed!’ it to the 
mountain saith, 

And with ambitious feet, secure 
and proud, 

Ascends the ladder leaning on the 
cloud! 


As ancient Priam at the Scsan 


gate 

Sat on the walls of Troy in regal 
state 

With the old men, too old and weak 
to fight, 80 

Chirping like grasshoppers in their 
delight 


To see the embattled hosts, with 
spear and shield, 

Of Trojans and Achaians in the 
field ; 

So from the snowy summits of our 
years | 

We see you in the plain, as each 
appears, 


MORITURI SALUTAMUS 





And question of you; asking, 
‘Who is he 

That towers above the others? 
Which may be 

Atreides, Menelaus, Odysseus, 

Ajax the great, or bold Idome- 
neus ?’ 


Tet him not boast who puts his 


armor on go 

As he who puts it off, the battle 
done. 

Study yourselves ; and most of all 
note well 

Wherein kind Nature meant you 
to excel. 

Not every blossom ripens into 
fruit; 

Minerva, the inventress of the 
flute, 

Flung it aside, when she her face 
surveyed 

Distorted in a fountain as she 
played; 


The unlucky Marsyas found it, 
and his fate 

Was one to make the bravest hesi- 
tate. 


Write on your doors the saying 
wise and old, 100 

*Be bold! be bold!’ and every- 
where ‘ Be bold; 

Be not too bold!’ Yet better the 
excess 

Than the defect; better the more 
than less ; 

Better like Hector in the field to 
die, 

Than like a perfumed Paris turn 
and fly. 


And now, my classmates; ye re- 
maining few 

That number not the half of those 
we knew, 

Ye, against whose familiar names 
not yet 

The fatal asterisk of death is set, 

Ye I salute! The horologe of 
Time 110 


405 


Strikes the half-century with a 
solemn chime, 

And summons us together once 
again, 

The joy of meeting not unmixed 
with pain. 


Where are the others? ‘Voices 
from the deep 

Caverns of darkness answer me: 
‘They sleep!’ 

I name no names; instinctively I 
feel 

Each at some well-remembered 
grave will kneel, 

And from the inscription wipe the 
weeds and moss, 

For every heart best knoweth its 
own loss. 

I see their scattered gravestones 
gleaming white 120 

Through the pale dusk of the im- 
pending night; 

O’er all alike the impartial sunset 
throws 

Its golden lilies mingled with the 
rose; 

We give to each a tender thought, 
and pass 

Out of the graveyards with their 
tangled grass, 

Unto these scenes frequented by 
our feet 

When we were young, and life was 
fresh and sweet. 


What shall I say to you? What 
can I say 

Better than silence is? When I 
survey 

This throng of faces turned to 
meet my own, 130 

Friendly and fair, and yet to me 
unknown, 

Transformed the very landscape 
seems to be; 

It is the same, yet not the same to 
me. 

So many memories crowd upon my 
brain, 


406 


MORITURI SALUTAMUS 





So many ghosts are in the wooded 
plain, 

I fain would steal away, with noise- 
less tread, 

As from a house where some one 
lieth dead. 

I cannot go;—I pause;—TI hesi- 


tate ; 

My feet reluctant linger at the 
gate ; 

As one who struggles in a troubled 
dream 140 

To speak and cannot, to myself I 
seem. 

Vanish the dream! Vanish the 
idle fears! 

Vanish the rolling mists of fifty 
years! 

Whatever time or space may in- 
tervene, 

I will not be a stranger in this 
scene. 

Here every doubt, all indecision, 
ends; 


Hail, my companions, comrades, 
classmates, friends ! 


Ah me! the fifty years since last 
we met 

Seem to me fifty folios bound and 
set 

By Time, the great transcriber, on 
his shelves, 150 

Wherein are written the histories 
of ourselves. 

What tragedies, what comedies, 
are there ; 

What joy and grief, what rapture 
and despair! 

What chronicles of triumph and 
defeat, 

Of struggle, and temptation, and 
retreat ! 

What records of regrets, 
doubts, and fears! 
What pages blotted, blistered by 

our tears! 
What lovely landscapes on the 
margin shine, 


and 


What sweet, angelic faces, what 
divine 

And holy images of love and trust, 

Undimmed by age, unsoiled by 
damp or dust! 161 


Whose hand shall dare to open 
and explore 

These volumes, closed and clasped 
forevermore ? 

Not mine. With reverential feet 
I pass; 

I hear a voice that cries, ‘ Alas! 
alas! 

Whatever hath been written shall 
remain, 

Nor be erased nor written o’er 
again ; 

The unwritten only still belongs 
to thee: 

Take heed, and ponder well what 
that shall be.’ 


As children frightened by a thun- 
der-cloud 170 

Are reassured if some one reads 
aloud 

A tale of wonder, with enchant- 
ment fraught, 

Or wild adventure, that diverts 
their thought, 

Let me endeavor with a tale to 
chase 

The gathering shadows of the time 
and place, 

And banish what we all too deeply 
feel 

Wholly to say or wholly to con- 
ceal. 


In medizval Rome, I know not 
where, 

There stood an image with its arm 
in air, 

And on its lifted finger, shining 
clear, 18a 

A golden ring with the device, 
‘Strike here!’ 

Greatly the people wondered 
though none guessed 


MORITURI SALUTAMUS 


—, 


: The meauing that these words but 
half expressed, 
Until a learned clerk, who at noon- 
day 
With downcast eyes was passing 
on his way, 
Paused, and observed the spot, 
and marked it well, 
Whereon the shadow of the finger 
fell; 
And, coming back at midnight, 
delved, and found 
A secret stairway leading under- 
ground. 
Down this he passed into a spa- 
cious hall, 190 
Lit by a flaming jewel on the 
wall; 
And opposite, in threatening atti- 
tude, 
With bow and shaft a brazen 
statue stood. 
Upon its forehead, like a coronet, 
Were these mysterious words of 
menace set: 
‘That which Iam, I am; my fatal 
aim 
None can escape, not even yon 
luminous flame!’ 





Midway the hall was a fair table 
placed, 

With cloth of gold, and golden 
cups enchased 

With rubies, and the plates and 
knives were gold, 200 

And gold the breac and viands 
manifold. 

Around it, silent, motionless, and 
sad, 

Were seated gallant knights in 
armor clad, 

And ladies beautiful with plume 
and zone, 

But they were stone, their hearts 
within were stone; 

And the vast hall was filled in 
every part 

With silent crowds, stony in face 
and heart. 


407 





Long at the scene, bewildered and 
amazed, 

The trembling clerk in speechless 
wonder gazed ; 

Then from the table, by his greed 
made bold, 210 

He seized a goblet and a knife of 
gold, 

And suddenly from their seats the 
guests upsprang, 

The vaulted ceiling with 
clamors rang, 

The archer sped his arrow, at 
their call, 

Shattering the lambent jewel on 
the wall, 

And all was dark around and over- 
head ; — 

Stark on the floor the luckless 
clerk lay dead! 


loud 


The writer of this legend then re- 


cords 
Its ghostly application in these 
words: 219 


The image is the Adversary old, 

Whose beckoning finger points to 
realms of gold; 

Our lusts and passions are the 
downward stair 

That leads the soul from a diviner 
air; 

The archer, Death; the flaming 
jewel, Life; 

Terrestrial goods, the goblet and 
the knife; 

The knights and ladies, all whose 
flesh and bone 

By avarice have been hardened 
into stone ; 

The clerk, the scholar whom the 
love of pelf 

Tempts from his books and from 
his nobler self. 


The scholar and the world! The 
endless strife, 230 

The discord in the harmonies of 
life! 


408 





The love of learning, the seques- 
tered nooks, 

And all the sweet serenity of 
books; 

The market-place, the eager love 
of gain, 

Whose aim is vanity, and whose 
end is pain! 


But why, you ask me, should this 
tale be told 

To men grown old, or who are 
growing old? 

It is too late! Ah, nothing is too 


late 

Till the tired heart shall cease to 
palpitate. 

Cato learned Greek at eighty; 
Sophocles 240 

Wrote his grand Q£dipus, and 
Simonides 


Bore off the prize of verse from 
his compeers, 

When each had numbered more 
than fourscore years, 

And Theophrastus, at fourscore 
and ten, 

Had but begun his ‘ Characters of 
Men.’ 

Chaucer, at Woodstock with the 
nightingales, 

At sixty wrote the Canterbury 


Tales ; 

Goethe at Weimar, toiling to the 
last, 

Completed Faust when eighty 


years were past. 

These are indeed exceptions; but 
they show 250 

How far the gulf-stream of our 
youth may flow 

Into the arctic regions of our 
lives, 

Where little else than life itself 
survives. 


As the barometer foretells the 
storm 

While still the skies are clear, the 
weather warm, 


MORITURI SALUTAMUS 


——_ +, 


So something in us, as old age 
draws near, 
Betrays the pressure of the at 


mosphere. 

The nimble mercury, ere we are 
aware, 

Descends the elastic ladder of the 
air; 

The telltale blood in artery and 
vein 26a 

Sinks from its higher levels in the 
brain ; 


Whatever poet, orator, or sage 

May say of it, old age is still old 
age. 

It is the waning, not the crescent 
moon; 

The dusk of evening, not the blaze 
of noon; 

It is not strength, but weakness; 
not desire, 

But its surcease; not the fierce 
heat of fire, 

The burning and consuming ele- 
ment, 

But that of ashes and of embers 
spent, 

In which some living sparks we 
still discern, 270 

Enough to warm, but not enough 
to burn. 


What then? Shall we sit idly 
down and say 

The night hath come; it is no 
longer day? 

The night hath not yet come; we 
are not quite 

Cut off from labor by the failing 
light; 

Something remains for us to do or 
dare; 

Even the oldest tree some fruit 
may bear; 

Not Q£dipus Coloneus, or Greek 
Ode, 

Or tales of pilgrims that one morn. 
ing rode 

Out of the gateway of the Tabard 
Inn, 280 


THREE FRIENDS OF MINE 


409 





But other something, would we | And as the evening twilight fades 


but begin; 
For age is opportunity no less 
Than youth itself, though in an- 
other dress, 


away 
The sky is filled with stars, invisi- 
ble by day. 


AY BOOKS Ore SONNETS 


THREE FRIENDS OF MINE 


I 


WHEN I remember them, those 
friends of mine, 
Who are no longer here, the no- 
ble three, 
Who half my life were more 
than friends to me, 
And whose discourse was like a 
generous wine, 
I most of all remember the divine 
Something, that shone in them, 
and made us see 
The archetypal man, and what 
might be 
The amplitude of Nature’s first 
design. 
In vain I stretch my hands to 
clasp their hands; 
I cannot find them. 
now is left 
But a majestic memory. They 
meanwhile 
Wander together in Elysian lands, 
Perchance remembering me, who 
am bereft 
Of their dear presence, and, re- 
membering, smile. 


Nothing 


II 


In Attica thy birthplace should 
have been, 
Or the Ionian Isles, or where 
the seas 
Encircle in their arms the Cy- 
clades, 
So wholly Greek wast thou in 
thy serene 
And childlike joy of life, O Phil- 
hellene! 


Around thee would have 
swarmed the Attic bees; 
Homer had been thy friend, or 
Socrates, 
And Plato welcomed thee to his 
demesne. 
For thee old legends breathed his- 
torie breath ; 
Thou sawest Poseidon in the 
purple sea, 
And in the sunset Jason’s fleece 
of gold! 
Oh, what hadst thou to do with 
cruel Death, 
Who wast so full of life, or 
Death with thee, 
That thou shouldst die before 
thou hadst grown old! 


Tit 


I stand again on the familiar 
shore, 
And hear the waves of the dis- 
tracted sea 
Piteously calling and lamenting 
thee, 
And waiting restless at thy cot- 
tage door. 
The rocks, the sea-weed on the 
ocean floor, 
The willows in the meadow, and 
the free 
Wild winds of the Atlantic wel- 
come me; 
Then why shouldst thou be dead, 
and come no more? 
Ah, why shouldst thou be dead, 
when common men 
Are busy with their trivial 
affairs, 


410 


ATBOORTOF 


SONNETS 


eee —— 


Having and holding? 

when thou hads¢ read 
Nature’s mysterious manuscript, 

and then 

Wast ready to reveal the truth 
it bears, 

Why art thou silent? 
shouldst thou be dead? 


Why, 


Why 


Vi 


River, that stealest with such 
silent pace 
Around the City of the Dead, 
where lies 
A friend who bore thy name, and 
whom these eyes 
Shall see no more in his accus- 
tomed place, 
Linger and fold him in thy soft em- 
brace, 
And say good night, for now the 
western skies 
Are red with sunset, and gray 
mists arise 
Like damps that gather on a 
dead man’s face. 
Good night! good night! as we so 
oft have said 
Beneath this roof at midnight, 
in the days 
That are no more, and shall no 
more return. 
Thou hast but taken thy lamp and 
gone to bed; 
I stay a little longer, as one 


stays 
To cover up the embers that still 
burn. 
Vv 
The doors are all wide open; at 
the gate 
The blossomed lilacs counterfeit 
a blaze, 


And seem to warm the air; a 
dreamy haze 
Hangs o’er the Brighton mead- 
ows like a fate, 
And on their margin, with sea-tides 
elate, 


The flooded Charles, as in the 
happier days, 
Writes the last letter of his 
name, and stays 
His restless steps, as if compelled 
to wait. 
IT also wait; but they will come no 
more, 
Those friends of mine, whose 
presence satisfied 
The thirst and hunger of my 
heart. Ah me! 
They have forgotten the pathway 
to my door! 
Something is gone from nature 
since they died, 
And summer is not Summer, nor 
can be. 


CHAUCER 


AN old man in a lodge within a 
park ; 
The chamber walls depicted all 
around 
With portraitures of huntsman, 
hawk, and hound, 
And the hurt deer. Helisteneth 
to the lark, 
Whose song comes with the sun- 
shine through the dark 
Of painted glass 1n leaden lattice 
bound; 
He listeneth and he laugheth at 
the sound, 
Then writeth in a book like any 


clerk. 
He is the poet of the dawn, who 
wrote 
The Canterbury Tales, and his 
old age 
Made beautiful with song; and 
as Tread . 
I hear the crowing cock, I hear 
the note 


Of lark and linnet, and from 
every page 

Rise odors of ploughed field oF 
flowery mead. 


THE GALAXY 





SHAKESPEARE 


A vISION as of crowded city 
streets, 
With human life in endless over- 
flow ; 
Thunder of thoroughfares ; trum- 
pets that blow 
To battle ; clamor, in obscure 
retreats, 
Of sailors landed from their an- 
chored fleets ; 
Tolling of bells in turrets, and 
below 
Voices of children, and bright 
flowers that throw 
O’er garden-walls their intermin- 
gled sweets! 
This vision comes to me when I 
unfold 
The volume of the Poet para- 
mount, 
Whom all the Muses loved, not 
one alone ; — 
Into his hands they put the lyre of 
gold, 
And, crowned with sacred laurel 
at their fount, 
Placed him as Musagetes on 
their throne. 


MILTON 


I PACE the sounding sea-beach and 
behold 
How the voluminous billows roll 
and run, 
Upheaving and subsiding, while 
the sun 
Shines through their sheeted 
emerald far unrolled, 
And the ninth wave, slow gather- 
ing fold by fold 
All its Joose-flowing garments 
into one, 
Plunges upon the shore, and 
floods the dun 
Pale reach of sands, and changes 
them to gold. 
So in majestic cadence rise and 
fall 


All 





The mighty undulations of thy 
song, 

O sightless bard, England’s 
Meeonides! 

And ever and anon, high over all 

Uplifted, a ninth wave superb 
and strong, 

Floods all the soul with its me- 
lodious seas. 


KEATS 


THE young Endymion sleeps Endy- 
mion’s sleep; 
The shepherd-boy whose tale 
was left half told ! 
The solemn grove uplifts 
shield of gold 
To the red rising moon, and loud 
and deep b 
The nightingale is singing from 
the steep; 
It is midsummer, but the air is 
cold; 
Can it be death? Alas, beside 
the fold 
A shepherd’s pipe lies shattered 
near his sheep. 
Lo! in the moonlight gleams a 
marble white, 
On which I read: ‘ Here lieth 
one whose name 
Was writ in water.’ 
this the meed 
Of his sweet singing? Rather let 
me write: 
‘The smoking flax before it 
burst to flame 
Was quenched by death, and 
broken the bruised reed.’ 


ite 


And was 


THE GALAXY 


TORRENT Of light and river of the 
air, 
Along whose bed the glimmer: 
ing stars are seen 
Like gold and silver sands in 
some ravine 


412 





Where mountain streams have 
left their channels bare! 
The Spaniard sees in thee the 
pathway, where 
His patron saint descended in 
the sheen 
Of his celestial armor, on se- 
rene 
And quiet nights, when all the 
heavens were fair. 
Wot this I see, nor yet the ancient 
fable 
Of Phaeton’s wild course, that 
scorched the skies 
Where’er the hoofs of his hot 
coursers trod; 
But the white drift of worlds o’er 
chasms of sable, 
The star-dust, that is whirled 
aloft and flies 
From the _ invisible 
wheels of God. 


chariot- 


THE SOUND OF THE SEA 


THE sea awoke at midnight from 
its sleep, 
And round the pebbly beaches 
far and wide 
I beard the first wave of the ris- 
ing tide 
Rush onward with uninterrupted 
sweep; 
A voice out of the silence of the 
deep, 
A sound mysteriously multiplied 
As of a cataract from the moun- 


tain’s side, 
Or roar of winds upon a wooded 
steep. 
So comes to us at times, from the 
unknown 
And inaccessible solitudes of 
being, 
The rushing of the sea-tides of 
the soul; 
And inspirations, that we acon 


our own, 

Are some divine foreshadowing 
and foreseeing 

Of things beyond our reason or 
control. 


A BOOK OF SONNETS 


A SUMMER DAY BY THE 


SEA 
THE Sun is set; and in his latest 
beams 
Yon little cloud of ashen gray 
and gold, 
Slowly upon the amber air un- 
rolled, 


The falling mantle of the Pro- 
phet seems. 
From the dim headlands many a 
light-house gleams, 
The street-lamps of the ocean; 
and behold, 
Overhead the banners of the 
night unfold ; 
The day hath passed into the 
land of dreams. 
O summer day beside the joyous 
sea! 
O summer day so wonderful and 
white, 
So full of gladness and so full of 
pain ! 
Forever and forever shalt thou be 
To some the gravestone of a 
dead delight, 
To some the landmark of a new 
domain. 


THE TIDES 


I sAw the long line of the vacant 
shore, 
The sea-weed and the shells 
upon the sand, 
And the brown rocks left bare 
on every hand, 
As if the ebbing tide would flow 
no more. 
Then heard I, more distinctly than 
before, 
The ocean breathe and its great 
breast expand, 
And hurrying came on the de. 
fenceless land 
The insurgent waters with tu 
muituous roar. 
All thought and feeling and desire 
I said, 


SLEEP 


413 





Love, laughter, and the exultant 
joy of song 

Have ebbed from me forever! 
Suddenly o’er me 

They swept again from their deep 

ocean bed, 

And in a tumult of delight, and 
strong 

As youth, and beautifulas youth, 
upbore me. 


A SHADOW 


I SAID unto myself, if I were dead, 
What would befall these chil- 
dren? What would be 
Their fate, who now are looking 
up to me 
For help and furtherance? Their 
lives, I said, 
Would be a volume wherein I have 
read 
But the first chapters, and no 
longer see 
To read the rest of their dear 
history, 
So full of beauty and so full of 
dread, 
Be comforted; the world is very 
old, 
And generations pass, as they 
have passed, 
A troop of shadows moving with 
the sun; 
Thousands of times has the old 
tale been told ; 
The world belongs to those who 
come the last, 
They will find hope and strength 
as we have done. 


A NAMELESS GRAVE 


A SOLDIER of the Union mus- 

tered out,’ 

Ts the inscription on an unknown 
grave 

At Newport News, beside the 
salt-sea wave, 

Nameless and dateless ; sentinel 
or scout 


Shot down in skirmish, or disas- 
trous rout 
Of battle, when the loud artillery 
drave 
Its iron wedges through thc 
ranks of brave 
And doomed battalions, storm: 
ing the redoubt. 
Thou unknown hero sleeping by 
the sea 
In thy forgotten grave! with se 
eret shame 
I feel my pulses beat, my fore 
head burn, 
When I remember thou hast giver 
for me 
All that thou hadst, thy life, thy. 
very name, 
And I can give thee nothing in 
return. 


SLEEP 


LULL me fo sleep, ye winds, whos 
fitful sound 
Seems from some faint Atolian 
harp-string caught ; 
Seal up the hundred wakeful 
eyes of thought 
As Hermes with his lyre in sleep 
profound 
The hundred wakeful eyes of Ar- 
gus bound; 
For I am weary, and am over- 
wrought 
With too much toil, with too 
much care distraught, 
And with the iron crown of an- 
guish crowned. 
Lay thy soft hand upon my brow 
and cheek, 
O peaceful Sleep! until from pain 
released 
I breathe again uninterrupted 
breath! 
Ah, with what subtle meaning did 
the Greek 
Call thee the lesser mystery at 
the feast 
Whereof the greater mystery is 
death ! 


44 


A BOOK OF SONNETS 





THE OLD BRIDGE AT 
FLORENCE 
TADDEO GADDI built me. I am 
old, 
Five centuries old. I plant my 
foot of stone 
Upon the Arno, as St. Michael’s 
own 
Was planted on the dragon. 
Fold by fold 
Beneath me as it struggles, I be- 
hold 
Its glistening scales. 
hath it overthrown 
My kindred and companions. Me 


Twice 


alone 
It moveth not, but is by me con- 
trolled. 
I can remember when the Med- 
ici 
Were driven from Florence ; 


longer still ago 

The final wars of Ghibelline and 
Guelf. 

Florence adorns me with her jew- 

elry; 

And when I think that Michael 
Angelo 

Hath leaned on me, I glory in 
myself. 


IL PONTE VECCHIO DI 


FIRENZE 
GADDI mi fece; il Ponte Vecchio 
sono; 
Cinquecent’ anni gid’ sull’? Arno 
pianto 
Il piede, come il suo Michele 
Santo 
Piantd sul draco. Mentre ch’ io 
ragiono 


Lo vedo torcere con flebil suono 
Le rilucenti scaglie. Ha questi 
affranto 
Due volte i miei maggior. 
solo intanto 
Neppure muove, ed io non I’ ab- 
bandono. 


Me 


Io mi rammento quando fur cacci 
ati 

I Medici; pur quando Ghibellina 

E Guelfo fecer pace mi ram- 


mento. 
Fiorenza i suoi giojelli m’ ha pres- 
tati ; 
E quando perso ch’ Agnolo il 
divino 
Su me posava, insuperbir mi 
sento. 
NATURE 
As a fond mother, when the day 
is o’er, 
Leads by the hand her little child 
to bed, 
Half willing, half reluctant to be 
led, 


And leave his broken playthings 
on the floor, 
Still gazing at them through the 
open door, 
Nor wholly reassured and com- 


forted 

By promises of others in their 
stead, 

Which, though more splendid, 


may not please him more; 
So Nature deals with us, and takes 
away 
Our playthings one by one, cud 
by the hand 
Leads us to rest so gently, that 
we go 
Searce knowing if we wish to go or 
stay, 
Being too full of sleep to under: 
stand 
How far the unknown tran. 
scends the what we know. 


IN THE CHURCHYARD AT 
TARRYTOWN 


HERE lies the gentle humorist, 
who died 

In the bright Indian Summer of 
his fame! 


VENICE 
rr 
A simple stone, with but a date’ 


and name, 
Marks his secluded resting-place 
beside 
The river that he loved and glori- 
fied. 
Here in the autumn of his days 
he came, 
But the dry leaves of life were 
all aflame 
With tints that brightened and 
were multiplied. 
How sweet a life was his; how 
sweet a death! 
Living, to wing with mirth the 
weary hours, 
Or with romantic tales the heart 
to cheer ; 
Dying, to leave a memory like the 
breath 
Of summers full of sunshine and 
of showers, 
A grief and gladness in the at- 
mosphere. 


ELIOT’S OAK 


THOU ancient oak! whose myriad 
leaves aré loud 
With sounds of unintelligible 
speech, 
Sounds as of surges on a shingly 
beach, 
Or multitudinous murmurs of a 
crowd; 
With some mysterious gift of 
tongues endowed, 
Thou speakest a different dialect 


to each; 

Tome a language that no man 
ean teach, 

Of a lost race, long vanished like 
a cloud. 

For underneath thy shade, in days 

remote, 

Seated like Abraham at even- 
tide 

Beneath the oaks of Mamre, the 
unknown 


Apostle of the Indians, Eliot, wrote 


415 





His Bible in a language that hath 
died 

And is forgotten, save by thee 
alone. 


THE DESCENT OF THE 
MUSES 


NINE sisters, beautiful in form 
and face, 
Came from their convent on the 
shining heights 
Of Pierus, the mountain of de- 
lights, 
To dwell among the people at its 
base. 
Then seemed the world to change. 
All time and space, 
Splendor of cloudless days and 
starry nights, 
And men and manners, and all 
sounds and sights, 
Had a new meaning, a diviner 
grace. 
Proud were these sisters, but were 
not too proud 
To teach in schools of little 
country towns 
Science and song, and all the 
arts that please ; 
So that while housewives span, 
and farmers ploughed, 
Their comely daughters, clad in 
homespun gowns, 
Learned the sweet songs of the 
Pierides. 


VENICE 


WHITE swan of cities, slumbering 
in thy nest 
So wonderfully built among the 
reeds 
Of the lagoon, that fences thee 
and feeds, 
As sayeth thy old historian and 
thy guest! 
White water-lily, cradled and ca 
ressed 


416 


By ocean streams, and from the 
silt and weeds 
Lifting thy golden filaments and 
seeds, 
Thy sun-illumined spires, thy 
crown and crest! 
White phantom city, whose _un- 
trodden streets 
Are rivers, and whose pave- 
ments are the shifting 
Shadows of palaces and strips of 
sky ; 
I wait to see thee vanish like the 
fleets 
Seen in mirage, or towers of 
cloud uplifting 
In air their unsubstantial ma- 
sonry. 


THE POETS 


O YE dead Poets, who are living 
still 
Immortal in your verse, though 
life be fled, 
And ye, O living Poets, who are 
dead 
Though ye are living, if neglect 
ean kill, 
Tell me if in the darkest hours of 
ill, 
With drops of anguish falling 
fast and red 
From the sharp crown of thorns 
upon your head, 
Ye were not glad your errand to 
fulfil ? 
Yes; for the gift and ministry of 
Song 
Have something in them so di- 
vinely sweet, 
It can assuage the bitterness of 
wrong; 
Not in the clamor of the crowded 
street, 
Not in the shouts and plaudits 
of the throng, 
But in ourselves, are triumph 
and defeat. 


A BOOK OF SONNETS 


ie 


PARKER CLEAVELAND 


WRITTEN ON REVISITING 
BRUNSWICK IN THE SUMMER 
OF 1875 

AMONG the many lives that I have 

known, 

None I reinember more serene 
and sweet, ; 

More rounded in itself and more 
complete, 

Than his, who lies beneath this 
funeral stone. 

These pines, that murmur in low 

monotone, 

These walks frequented by scho- 
lastic feet, 

Were all his world; but in this 
calm retreat 

For him the Teacher’s chair be- 
came a throne. 

With fond affection memory loves 

to dwell 

On the old days, when his ex- 
ample made 

A pastime of the toil of tongue 
and pen; 

And now, amid the groves he loved 

so well 
That naught could lure him from 
- their grateful shade, 
-He sleeps, but wakes elsewhere, 
for God hath said, Amen! 


THE HARVEST MOON 
It is the Harvest Moon! On 
gilded vanes 
And roofs of villages, on wood- 
land crests 
And their aerial. neighborhoods 
of nests 
Deserted, on the curtained win- 
dow-panes 
Of rooms where children sleep, on 
country lanes 
And harvest-fields, its mystic 
splendor rests! 


THE TWO RIVERS 


417 





Gone are the birds that were our 
summer guests ; 
With the last sheaves return the 
laboring wains! 
All things are symbols: the exter- 
nal shows 
Of Nature have their image in 
the mind, 
. As flowers and fruits and falling 
of the leaves; 
The song-birds leave us at the 
summer’s close, 
Only the empty nests are left be- 
hind, 
And pipings of the quail among 
the sheaves. 
/ 


TO THE RIVER RHONE 


THOU Royal River, born of sun 
and shower 
In chambers purple with the Al- 
pine glow, 
Wrapped in the spotless ermine 
of the snow 
And rocked by tempests !—at 
the appointed hour 
Forth, like a steel-clad horseman 
from a tower, 
With clang and clink of harness 
dost thou go 
To meet thy vassal torrents, 
that below 
Rush to receive thee and obey 
thy power. 
And now thou movest in triumphal 
march, 
A king among the rivers! 
thy way 
A hundred towns await and wel- 
come thee; 
Bridges uplift for thee the stately 
arch, 
Vineyards encircle thee with 
garlands gay, 
And fleets attend thy progress 
to the sea! 


On 


THE THREE SILENCES OF 
MOLINOS 


TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 


THREE Silences there are: the 
first of speech, 
The second of desire, the third 
of thought; 
This is the lore a Spanish monk, 
distraught 
With dreams and visions, was 
the first to teach. : 
These Silences, commingling each 
with each, 
Made up the perfect Silence that 
he sought 
And prayed for, and wherein at 
times he caught 
Mysterious sounds from realms 
beyond our reach. 
O thou, whose daily life anticipates 
The life to come, and in whose 
thought and word 
The spiritual world preponder- 
ates, 
Hermit of Amesbury! thou too 
hast heard 
Voices and melodies from be- 
yond the gates, 
And speakest only when thy 
soul is stirred ! 


THE TWO RIVERS 


I 


SLOWLY the hour-hand of the 
elock moves round ; 
So slowly that no human eye 
hath power 
To see it move! 
or shower 
The painted ship above it, home. 
ward bound, 
Sails, but seems motionless, as if 
aground ; 
Yet both arrive at last; and in 
his tower 
slumberous watchman 
wakes and strikes the hour, 


Slowly in shine 


The 


418 


A mellow, measured, melancholy 
sound. 
Midnight! the outpost of advan- 
cing day! 
The frontier town and citadel of 
night! 
The watershed of Time, from 
which the streams 
Of Yesterday and To-morrow take 
their way, 
One to the land of promise and 
of light, 
One to the land of darkness and 
of dreams! 


II 


O River of Yesterday, with current 
swift 
Through chasms descending,and 
soon lost to sight, 
I do not care to follow in their 
flight 
The faded leaves, that on thy 
bosom drift! 
O River of To-morrow, I uplift 
Mine eyes, and thee I follow, as 
the night 
Wanes into morning, and the 
dawning light 
Broadens, and all the shadows 
fade and shift! 
I follow, follow, where thy waters 
run 
Through unfrequented, 
miliar fields, 
Fragrant with flowers and musi- 
cal with song; 
Still follow, follow; sure to meet 
the sun, 
And confident, that what the 
future yields 
Will be the right, unless myself 
be wrong. 


unfa- 


Tift 


Yet not in vain, O River of Yester- 
day, 
Through chasms of darkness to 
the deep descending, 
I heard thee sobbing in the rain, 
and blending 


A BOOK OF SONNETS 


mel 


Thy voice with other voices far 
away. 
I called to thee, and yet thou 
wouldst not stay, 

But turbulent, and with thyself 

contending, 

And torrent-like thy force on 

pebbles spending, 

Thou’ wouldst not listen to a 

poet’s lay. 
Thoughts, like a loud and sudden 
rush of wings, 

Regrets and recollections of 

thing . past, 

With hints and prophecies of 
things to be, 
inspirations, which, 
they be things, 

And stay with us, and we could 
hold them fast, 

Were our good angels, — these I 
owe to thee. 


And could 


Iv 


And thou, O River of To-morrow, 
flowing 
Between thy narrow adamantine 
walls, 
But beautiful, and white with 
waterfalls, 
«nd wreaths of mist, like hands 
the pathway showing ; 
I hear the trumpets of the morn- 
ing blowing, 
I hear thy mighty voice, that 
calls and calls, 
And see,as Ossian saw in Mor- 
ven’s halls, 
Mysterious phantoms, coming, 
beckoning, going! 
It is the mystery of the unknown 
That fascinates us; we are 
children still, 
Wayward and wistful; with one 
hand we cling 
To the familiar things we call our 
own, 
And with the other, resolute of 
will, 
Grope in the dark for what the 
day will bring. 


WOODSTOCK PARK 


419 





BOSTON 


ST. BoToLpeH’s Town! Hither 
across the plains 
And fens of Lincolnshire, in garb 
austere, 
There came a Saxon monk, and 
founded here 
A Priory, pillaged by marauding 
Danes, 
So that thereof no vestige now 
remains ; 
Only a name, that, spoken loud 
and clear, 
And echoed in another hemi- 
sphere, 
Survives the sculptured walls 
and painted panes. 
St. Botolph’s Town! Far over 
leagues of land 
And leagues of sea looks forth 
its noble tower, 
And far around the chiming bells 
are heard; 
So may that sacred name forever 
stand 
A landmark, and a symbol of the 
power, 
That lies concentred in a single 
word. 


ST. JOHN’S, CAMBRIDGE 


I sTAND beneath the tree, whose 
branches shade, 
Thy western window, Chapel of 
St. John! 
And hear its leaves repeat their 
benison 
On him, whose hand thy stones 
memorial laid ; 
Yhen I remember one of whom 
was said 
In the world’s darkest hour, 
‘Behold thy son!’ 
And see him living still, and 
wandering on 
And waiting for the advent long 
delayed. 
Not only tongues of the apostles 
teach 


Lessons of love and light, but 
these expanding 

And sheltering boughs with all 
their leaves implore, 

And say in language clear as hu- 

man speech, 

‘The peace of God, that passeth 
understanding, 

Be and abide with you forever- 
more!’ 


MOODS 


OH that a Song would sing itself 
to me 
Out of the heart of Nature, or 
the heart 
Of man, the child of Nature, not 
of Art, 
Fresh as the morning, salt as 
the salt sea, 
With just enough of bitterness to 
be 
A medicine to this sluggish 
mood, and start 
The life-blood in my veins, and 
so impart 
Healing and help in this, dulf 
lethargy! 
Alas! not always doth the breath 
of song 
Breathe on us. It is like the 
wind that bloweth 
At its own will, not ours, nor 
tarrieth long; 
We hear the sound thereof, but no 
man knoweth 
from whence it comes, so sudden 
and swift and strong, 
Nor whither in its wayward 
course it goeth. 


WOODSTOCK PARK 


HERE in a little rustic hermitage 
Alfred the Saxon King, Alfred 
the Great, 
Postponed the cares of king-craft 
to translate 
The Consolations of the Roman 
sage. 


420 


A BOOK OF SONNETS 





Here Geoffrey Chaucer in his ripe 
old age 
Wrote the unrivalled Tales, 
which soon or late 
The venturous hand that strives 
to imitate 
Vanquished must fall on the un- 
finished page. 
Two kings were they, who ruled 
by right divine, 
And both supreme; one in the 
realm of Truth, 
One in the realm of Fiction and 
of Song. 
What prince hereditary of their 
line, 
Uprising in the strength and 
flush of youth, 
Their glory shall inherit and 
prolong? 


THE FOUR PRINCESSES AT 
WILNA 


A PHOTOGRAPH 


SWEET faces, that from pictured 
casements lean 
As from a castle window, look- 
ing down 
On some gay pageant passing 
through a town, 
Yourselves the fairest figures in 
the scene ; 
With what a gentle grace, with 
what serene 
Unconsciousness ye wear the 
triple crown 
Of youth and beauty and the 
fair renown 
Of a great name, that ne’er hath 
tarnished been! 
From your soft eyes, so innocent 
and sweet, 
Four spirits, sweet and innocent 
as they, 
Gaze on the world below, the sky 
above ; 
Wark! there is some one singing 
in the street; 


‘Faith, Hope, and Love! these 
three,’ he seems to say; 
‘These three; and greatest of the 
three is Love.’ 


HOLIDAYS 


THE holiest of all holidays are 
those 
Kept by ourselves in silence and 
apart ; 
The secret anniversaries of the 
heart, 
When the full river of feeling 
overflows ;— 
The happy days unclouded to their 
close ; 
The sudden joys that out of 
darkness start 
As flames from ashes; swift 
desires that dart 
Like swallows singing 
each wind that blows! 
White as the gleam of a receding 
sail, 
White as a cloud that floats and 
fades in air, 
White as the whitest lily ona 
stream, 
These tender memories are;—a 
fairy tale 
Of some enchanted land we know 
not where, 
But lovely as a landscape in a 
dream. 


down 


WAPENTAKE 
TO ALFRED TENNYSON 


PoET! I come to touch thy lance 

with mine ; 

Not as a knight, who on the 
listed field 

Of tourney touched his adver. 
sary’s shield 

In token of defiance, but in 
sign 


THE CROSS° OR TSNOW 





Of homage to the mastery, which 

is thine, 

In English song; nor will I keep 
concealed, 

And voiceless as a rivulet frost- 
congealed, 

My admiration for thy verse di- 
vine. 


Not of the howling dervishes of | 


song, 
Who craze the brain with their 
delirious dance, 
Art thou, O sweet historian of 
the heart ! 
Therefore to thee the laurel-leaves 
belong, 
’ To thee our love and our alle- 
giance, 
For thy allegiance to the poet’s 
art. 


THE BROKEN OAR 


ONCE upon Iceland’s solitary 
strand 
A poet wandered with his book 
and pen, 


Seeking some final word, some 
sweet Amen, 
Wherewith to close the volume 
in his hand. 
The billows rolled and plunged 
upon the sand, 
The circling sea-gulls swept be- 
yond his ken, 
And from the parting cloud-rack 
now and then 
Flashed the red sunset over sea 
and land. 
When by the billows at his feet 
was tossed 


421 


od 


A broken oar; and carved there- 
on he read: 

‘Oft was I weary, when I toiled 
at thee ;’ 

And like a man, who findeth what 

was lost, 

He wrote the words, then lifted 
up his head, 

And flung his useless pen into 
the sea. 


THE CROSS OF SNOW 


In the long, sleepless watches of 
the night, 
A gentle face — the face of one 
long dead — 
Looks at me from the wall, 
where round its head 
The night-lamp casts a halo of 
pale light. 
Here in this room she died ; and 
soul more white 
Never through martyrdom of fire 


was led 
To its repose ; nor can in books 
be read 
The legend of a life more bene- 
dight. 
There is a mountain in the distant 
West 
That, sun-defying, in its deep ra- 
vines 
Displays across of snow upon 
its side. 
Such is the cross I wear upon my 
breast 


These eighteen years, through 
all the changing scenes 

And seasons, changeless since 
the day she died. 





BIRDS OF PASSAGE 


BLRDSGOR TEAS Satar, 


FLIGHT THES FOURTH 


CHARLES SUMNER 


. GARLANDS upon his grave 
And flowers upon his hearse, 
And to the tender heart and brave 
The tribute of this verse. 


His was the troubled life, 
The conflict and the pain, 

The grief, the bitterness of strife, 
The honor withcut stain. 


Like Winkelried, he took 
Into his manly breast 
The sheaf of hostile spears, and 
broke 
A path for the oppressed. 


Then from the fatal field 
Upon a nation’s heart 
Borne like a _ warrior 
shield ! — 
So should the brave depart. 


on his 


Death takes us by surprise, 
And stays our hurrying feet; 
The great design unfinished lies, 

Our lives are incomplete. 


But in the dark unknown 
Perfect their circles seem, 

Even as a bridge’s arch of stone 
Is rounded in the stream. 


Alike are life and death, 

When life in death survives, 
And the uninterrupted breath 

Inspires a thousand lives. 


Were a star quenched on high, 
For ages would its light, 
Still travelling downward from the 
sky, 
Shine on our mortal sight. 


So when a great man dies, 
For years beyond our ken, 

The light he leaves behind him lies 
Upon the paths of men. 


TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE 


THE ceaseless rain is falling fast, 
And yonder gilded vane, 

Immovable for three days past, 
Points to the misty main. 


It drives me in upon myself 
And to the fireside gleams, 
To pleasant books that crowd my 
shelf, 
And still more pleasant dreams. 


I read whatever bards have sung 
Of lands beyond the sea, 
And the bright days when I was 
young 
Come thronging back to me. 


In fancy I can hear again 
The Alpine torrent’s roar, 
The mule-bells on the hills of 
Spain, 
The sea at Elsinore. 


I see the convent’s gleaming wall 
Rise from its groves of pine, 

And towers of old cathedrals tall, 
And castles by the Rhine. 


I journey on by park and spire, 
Beneath centennial] trees, 
Through fields with poppies all on 
re: 
And gleams of distant seas. 


I fear no more the dust and heat, 
No more I feel fatigue, 


MONTE CASSINO 


423 





While journeying with another's 
feet 
O’er many a lengthening league. 


Let others traverse sea and land, 
And toil through various climes, 
I turn the world round with my 
hand 
Reading these poets’ rhymes. 


From them I learn whatever lies 
Beneath each changing zone, 
And see, when looking with their 
eyes, 
Better than with mine own. 


CADENABBIA 
LAKE OF COMO 


No sound of wheels or hoof-beat 
breaks 
The silence of the summer day, 
As by the loveliest of all lakes 
I while the idle hours away. 


I pace the leafy colonnade, 
Where level branches of the 
plane 
Above me weave a roof of shade 
Impervious to the sun and rain. 


At times a sudden rush of air 
Flutters the lazy leaves o’er- 
head, 
And gleams of sunshine toss and 
flare 
Like torches down the path I 
tread. 


By Somariva’s garden ate 
I make the marble stairs my 
seat, 
And hear the water, as I wait, 
Lapping the steps beneath my 
feet. 


The undulation sinks and swells 
Along the stony parapets, 

And far away the floating bells 
Tinkle upon the fisher’s nets. 


Silent and slow, by tower and 
town 
The freighted barges come and 
£0, 
Their pendent shadows gliding 
down 
By town and tower submerged 
below. 


The hills sweep upward from the 


shore, 
With villas scattered one by 
one 
Upon their wooded spurs, and 
lower 


Bellaggio blazing in the sun. 


And dimly seen, a tangled mass 
Of walls and woods, of light and 
shade, 
Stands, beckoning up the Stelvio 
Pass, 
Varenna with its white cascade. 


I ask myself, Is this a dream? 
Will it all vanish into air? 

Is there a land of such supreme 
And perfect beauty anywhere? 


Sweet vision! Do not fade away: 
Linger, until my heart shall take 
Into itself the summer day, 
And all the beauty of the lake; 


Linger, until upon my brain 
Is stamped an image of the 
scene ; 
Then fade into the air again, 
And be as if thou hadst not 
been. 


MONTE CASSINO 
TERRA DI LAVORO 


BEAUTIFUL Valley ! through whose 
verdant meads 
Unheard the Garigliano glides 
along ;— 


424 


- 


The Liris, nurse of rushes and of 
reeds, 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE 





That pauses on a mountain sum. 
mit high, 


The river taciturn of classic | Monte Cassino’s convent rears its 


song. 


The Land of Labor and the Land 
of Rest, 
Where medizvaltowns are white 
on all 
The hillsides, and where every 
mountain’s crest 
Is an Etrurian or a Roman wall. 


There is Alagna, where Pope Boni- 
face 
Was dragged with contumely 
from his throne; 10 
Sciarra Colonna, was that day’s 
disgrace 
The Pontiff’s only, or in part 
thine own? 


There is Ceprano, where a rene- 
gade 
Was each Apulian, 
Dante saith, 
When Manfred by his men-at-arms 
betrayed 
Spurred on to Benevento and to 
death. 


as great 


There is Aquinum, the old Vol- 
scian town, 
Where Juvenal was born, whose 
lurid light 
Still hovers o’er his birthplace like 
the crown 
Of splendor seen o’er cities in 
the night. 20 


Doubled the splendor is, that in 
its streets 
The Angelic Doctor as a school- 
boy played, 
And dreamed perhaps the dreams, 
that he repeats 
In ponderous folios for scholas- 
tics made. 


And there, uplifted, like a passing 
cloud 


proud 
And venerable walls against the 
sky. 
Well I remember how on foot I 
climbed 
The stony pathway leading to 
its gate; 30 


Above, the convent bells for ves- 
pers chimed, 
Below, the darkening town grew 
desolate. 


Well I remember the low arch and 
dark, 
The courtyard with its well, the 
terrace wide, 
From which, far down, the valley 
like a park, 
Veiled in the evening mists, wag 
dim descried. 


The day was dying, and with fee. 
ble hands 
Caressed the mountain-tops ; the 
vales between 
Darkened; the river in the mea 
dow-lands 
Sheathed itself as a sword, and 
was not seen. 40 


The silence of the place was like 
a sleep, 
So full of rest it seemed; each 
passing tread 
Was a reverberation from the 
deep 
Recesses of the ages that are 
dead. 


For, more than thirteen centuries 
ago, 
Benedict fleeing from the gates 
of Rome, 
A youth disgusted with its vice 
and woe, 
Sought in these mountain soli 
tudes a home, 


AMALFI 


425 





Ye founded here his Convent and 
his Rule 
Of prayer and work, and counted 
work as prayer; 50 
The pen became a clarion, and his 
school 
Flamed like a beacon in the mid- 
night air. 


What though Boccaccio, in his 
reckless way, 
Mocking the lazy brotherhood, 
deplores 
The illuminated manuscripts, that 
lay 
Torn and neglected on the dusty 
floors? 


Boceaccio was a novelist, a child 
Of fancy and of fiction at the 
best! 
This the urbane librarian said, and 
smiled 
Incredulous, as at some idle 
jest. 60 


Upon such themes as these, with 
one young friar 
I sat conversing late into the 
night, 
Till in its cavernous chimney the 
wood-fire 
Had burnt its heart out like an 
anchorite. 


And then translated, in my con- 
vent cell, 
Myself yet not myself, in dreams 
I lay, 
And, as a monk who hears the 
matin bell, 


Started from sleep ;— already it 


was day. 


From the high window I beheld 
the scene 
On which Saint Benedict so oft 
had gazed, — 70 
fhe mountains and the valley in 
the sheen 
Of the bright sun,—and stood 
as one amazed. 


Gray mists were rolling, rising, 
vanishing ; 
The woodlands glistened with 
their jewelled crowns; 
Far off the mellow bells began to 
ring 
For matins in the half-awakened 
towns. 


The conflict of the Present and the 
Past, 
The ideal and the actual in our 
life, 
As on afield of battle held me fast, 
‘Where this world and the next 
world were at strife. 80 


For, as the valley from its sleep 
awoke, 
I saw the iron horses of the 
steam 
Toss to the morning air their 
plumes of smoke, 
And woke, as one awaketh from 
a dream. 


AMALFI 


| SWEET the memory is to me 


Of a land beyond the sea, 

Where the waves and mountains 
meet, 

Where amid her mulberry-trees 

Sits Amalfi in the heat, 

Bathing ever her white feet 

In the tideless summer seas. 


In the middle of the town, 

From its fountains in the hills, 

Tumbling through the narrow 
gorge, 10 

The Canneto rushes down, 

Turns the great wheels of the 
mills, 

Lifts the hammers of the forge. 


°T is a Stairway, not a street, 
That ascends the deep ravine, 
Where the torrent leaps between 
Rocky walls that almost meet. 
Toiling up from stair to stair 





Peasant girls their burdens bear; 
Sunburnt daughters of the-soil, 20 
Stately figures tall and straight, 
What inexorable fate 

Dooms them to this life of toil? 


Lord of vineyards and of lands, 
Far above the convent stands. 

On its terraced walk aloof 

Leans a monk with folded hands. 
Placid, satisfied, serene, 

Looking down upon the scene 
Over wall and red-tiled roof; 30 
Wondering unto what good end 
All this toil and traffic tend, 

And why all men cannot be 

Free from care and free from pain, 
And the sordid love of gain, 

And as indolent as he. 


Where are now the freighted barks 

From the marts of east and west? 

Where the knights in iron sarks 

Journeying to the Holy Land, 40 

Glove of steel upon the hand, 

Cross of crimson on the breast? 

Where the pomp of camp and 
court? 

Where the pilgrims with their 
prayers? 

Where the merchants with their 
wares, 

And their gallant brigantines 

Sailing safely into port 

Chased by corsair Algerines ? 


Vanished like a fleet of cloud, 
Like a passing trumpet-blast, 50 
Are those splendors of the past, 
And the commerce and the crowd! 
Fathoms deep beneath the seas 
Lie the ancient wharvesand quays, 
Swallowed by the engulfing waves; 
silent streets and vacant halls, 
Ruined roofs and towersand walls; 
Hidden from all mortal eyes 

Deep the sunken city lies: 

Even cities have their graves! 60 


This is an enchanted land! 
Round the headlands far away 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE 


ee 


Sweeps the blue Salernian bay 
With its sickle of white sand: 
Further still and furthermost 

On the dim discovered coast 
Peestum with its ruins lies, 

And its roses all in bloom 

Seem to tinge the fatal skies 

Of that lonely land of doom. 7a 


On his terrace, high in air, 

Nothing doth the good monk care 

For such worldly themes as these. 

From the garden just below 

Little puffs of perfume blow, 

And a sound is in his ears 

Of the murmur of the bees 

In the shining chestnut trees; 

Nothing else he heeds or hears. 

All the landscape seems to 
swoon 8a 

In the happy afternoon ; 

Slowly o’er his senses creep 

The encroaching waves of sleep, 

And he sinks as sank the town, 

Unresisting, fathoms down, 

Into caverns cool and deep! 


Walled about with drifts of snow, 
Hearing the fierce north-wind blow 
Seeing all the landscape white 
And the river cased in ice, ge 
Comes this memory of delight, 
Comes this vision unto me 

Of a long-lost Paradise 


| In the land beyond the sea. 


THE SERMON OF ST. FRAN- 
CIS 


Up soared the lark into the air, 
A shaft of song, a wingéd prayer, 
As if a soul released from pain 
Were flying back to heaven again 


St. Francis heard : it was to him 

An emblem of the Seraphim ; 

The upward motion of the fire, 

The light, the heat, the heart’s de 
sire. 


BELISARIUS 





Around Assisi’s convent gate 

The birds, God’s poor who cannot 
wait, 

From moor and mere and dark- 
some wood 

Some flocking for their dole of 
food, 


*O brother birds,’ St. Francis said, 
°Ye come to me and ask for bread, 
But not with bread alone to-day 
Shall ye be fed and sent away. 


*Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds, 

With manna of celestial words; 

Not mine, though mine they seem 
to be, 

Not mine, though they be spoken 
through me. 


‘Oh, doubly are ye bound to praise 

The great Creator in your lays ; 

He giveth you your plumes of 
down, 

Your crimson hoods, your cloaks 
of brown. 


*He giveth you your wings to fly 
And breathe a purer air on high, 
And careth for you everywhere, 
Who for yourselves so little care! 


With flutter of swift wings and 
songs 
Together rose 

throngs, 
And singing scattered far apart ; 
Deep peace was in St. Francis’ 
heart. 


the feathered 


He knew not if the brotherhood 

His homily had understood ; 

He only knew that to one ear 

The meaning of his words was 
clear. 


BELISARIUS 


I AM poor and old and blind; 
The sun burns me, and the wind 
Blows through the city gate, 


427 





And covers me with dust 
From the wheels of the august 
Justinian the Great. 


It was for him I chased 

The Persians o’er wild and waste 
As General of the East; 

Night after night I lay 

In their camps of yesterday ; 
Their forage was my feast. 


For him, with sails of red, 

And torches at mast-head, 
Piloting the great fleet, 

I swept the Afric coasts 

And scattered the Vandal hosts, 
Like dust in a windy street. 


For him I won again 

The Ausonian realm and reign, 
Rome and Parthenope ; 

And all the land was mine 

From the summits of Apennine 
To the shores of either sea. 


For him, in my feeble age, 
I dared the battle’s rage, 

To save Byzantium’s state, 
When the tents of Zabergan 
Like snow-drifts overran 

The road to the Golden Gate, 


And for this, for this, behold! 
Infirm and blind and old, 

With gray, uncovered head, 
Beneath the very arch 
Of my triumphal march, 

I stand and beg my bread! 


Methinks I still can hear, 

Sounding distinct and near, 
The Vandal monarch’s ery, 

As, captive and disgraced, 

With majestic step he paced, — 
‘All, allis Vanity!’ 


Ah! vainest of all things 

Is the gratitude of kings; 
The plaudits of the crowd 

Are but the clatter of feet 


428 





At midnight in the street, 
Hollow and restless and loud. 


But the bitterest disgrace 

Is to see forever the face 

Of the Monk of Ephesus! 

The unconquerable will 

This, too, can bear ; —I still 
Am Belisarius! 


SONGO RIVER 


NOWHERE Such a devious stream, 

Save in fancy or in dream, 

Winding slow through bush and 
brake, 

Links together lake and lake. 


Walled with woods or sandy shelf, 

Ever doubling on itself 

Flows the stream, so still and 
slow 

That it hardly seems to flow. 


Never errant knight of old, 

Lost in woodland or on wold, 
Such a winding path pursued 
Through the sylvan solitude. 


Never school-boy, in his quest 
After hazel-nut or nest, 
Through the forest in and out 
Wandered loitering thus about. 


KERAMOS 
a 


In the mirror of its tide 
Tangled thickets on each side 
Hang inverted, and between 
Floating cloud or sky serene. 


Swift or swallow on the wing 
Seems the only living thing, 

Or the loon, that laughs and flies 
Down to those reflected skies. 


Silent stream! thy Indian name 
Unfamiliar is to fame; 

For thou hidest here alone, 
Well content to be unknown. 


But thy tranquil waters teach 
Wisdom deep as human speech, 
Moving without haste or noise 
In unbroken equipoise. 


Though thou turnest no busy mill, 
And art ever calm and still, 

Even thy silence seems to say 

To the traveller on his way :— 


‘Traveller, hurrying from the heat 
Of the city, stay thy feet! 

Rest awhile, nor longer waste 
Life with inconsiderate haste! 


‘Be not like a stream that brawls 
Loud with shallow waterfalls, 
But in quiet self-control 

Link together soul and soul.’ 


KERAMOS 


KERAMOS 


Turn, turn, my wheel! Turn 
round and round 

Without a pause, without a sound: 

So spins the flying world 

away ! 

This clay, well mixed with marl 
and sand, 

Follows the motion of my hand; 

For some must follow, and some 
command, 


Though all are made of clay ! 


Thus sang the Potter at his task 
Beneath the blossoming hawthorn. 


tree, 

While o’er his features, like a 
mask, 10 

The quilted sunshine and _ leaf- 
shade 

Moved, as the boughs above him 
swayed, 

And clothed him, till he seemed te 
be 


A figure woven in tapestry, 
So sumptuously was he arrayed 


KERAMOS 


429 





In that magnificent attire 

Of sable tissue flaked with fire. 

Like a magician he appeared, 

A conjurer without book or beard ; 

And while he plied his magic 
art — 20 

For it was magical to me — 

I stood in silence and apart, 

And wondered more and more to 
see 

That shapeless, lifeless mass of 
clay 

Rise up to meet the master’s hand, 

And now contract and now ex- 
pand, 

And even his slightest touch obey ; 

While ever in a thoughtful mood 

He sang his ditty, and at times 

Whistled a tune between the 
rhymes, 30 

As a melodious interlude. 


Turn, turn, my wheel! All things 
must change 
To something new, to something 
strange ; 
Nothing that is can pause or 
stay ; 
The moon will wax, the moon will 
wane, 
The mist and cloud will turn to 
rain, 
Therainto mist and cloud again, 
To-morrow be to-day. 


Thus still the Potter sang, and still, 
By some unconscious act of will, 40 
The melody and even the words 


Were intermingled with my 
thought, 

As bits of colored thread are 
caught 


And woven into nests of birds. 
And thus to regions far remote, 
Beyond the ocean’s vast expanse, 
This wizard in the motley coat 
Transported me on wings of song, 
And by the northern shores of 
France 

me with restless speed 
along. 50 


Bore 





What land is this that seems to be 

A mingling of the land and sea? 

This land of sluices, dikes, and 
dunes ? 

This water-net, that tessellates 


The landscape? this unending 
maze 

Of gardens, through whose latticed 
gates 

The imprisoned pinks and tulips 
gaze ; 


Where in long summer afternoons 
Thesunshine, softened by the haze, 
Comes streaming down as through 


a screen; 60 
Where over fields and pastures 
green 


The painted ships float high in air, 

And over all and everywhere 

The sails of windmills sink and 
soar 

Like wings of sea-gulls on the 
shore ? 


What land is this? Yon pretty 
town 

Is Delft, with all its wares dis- 
played; 

The pride, the market-place, the 
crown 

And centre of the Potter’s trade. 

See! every house and room is 
bright 70 

With glimmers of reflected light 

From plates that on the dresser 
shine ; 

Flagons to foam with Flemish 
beer, 

Or sparkle with the Rhenish wine, 

And pilgrim flasks with fleurs-de- 
lis, 

And ships upon a rolling sca, 

And tankards pewter topped, and 
queer 

With comic mask and musketeer! 

Each hospitable chimney smiles 


A welcome from its painted 
tiles ; 80 
The parlor walls, the chamber 


floors, 
The stairways and the corridors, 


430 


KERAMOS 





The borders of the garden walks, 

Are beautiful with fadeless flowers. 

That never droop in winds or 
showers, 

And never wither on their stalks. 


Turn, turn, my wheel! 
brief ; 

What now is bud will soon be leaf, 

What now is leaf will soon de- 


All life is 


cay; 
The wind blows east, the wind 
blows west ; go 


The blue eggs in the robin’s nest 
Will soon have wings and beak 
and breast, 
And flutter and fly away. 


Now southward through the air I 
glide, 

The song my only pursuivant, 

And see across the Jandscape wide 

The blue Charente, upon whose 
tide 

The belfries and the spires of 
Saintes 

Ripple and rock from side to side, 

As, when an earthquake rends its 
walls, 100 

A crumbling city reels and falls. 


Who is it in the suburbs here, 

This Potter, working with such 
cheer, 

In this mean house, this mean at- 
tire, 

His manly features bronzed with 
fire, 

Whose figulines and rustic wares 

Searce find him bread from day to 
day ? 

This madman, as the people say, 

Who breaks his tables and his 


chairs 
To feed his furnace fires, nor 
cares IIo 
Who goes unfed if they are fed, 


Nor who may live if they are dead ? 

This alchemist with hollow cheeks 

And sunken, searching eyes, who 
seeks, 


By mingled earths and ores com. 
bined 
With potency of fire, to find 


Some new enamel, hard and 
bright, 

His dream, his passion, his de- 
light? 


O Palissy! within thy breast 

Burned the hot fever of unrest; 120 

Thine was the prophet’s vision, 
thine 

The exultation, the divine 

Insanity of noble minds, 

That never falters nor abates, 

But labors and endures and waits, 

Till all that it foresees it finds, 

Or what it cannot find creates! 


Turn, turn, my wheel! This 
earthen jar 

A touch can make, a touch can 
mar ; ‘ 

And shall it to the Potter 

Say, 130 

What makest thou? Thou hast no 
hand ? 


As men who think to understand 
A world by their Creator planned, 
Who wiser is than they. 


Still guided by the dreamy song, 

As in a trance I float along 

Above the Pyrenean chain, 

Above the fields and farms of 
Spain, 

Above the bright Majorcan isle 

That lends its softened name te 
art, — 

A spot, a dot upon the chart, 

Whose little towns, red-roofed 
with tile, 

Are ruby-lustred with the light 

Of blazing furnaces by night, 

And crowned by day with wreaths 
of smoke. 

Then eastward, wafted 
flight 

On my enchanter’s magic cloak, 

I sail across the Tyrrhene Sea 

Into the land of Italy, 


140 


in my 


KERAMOS 


431 





And o’er the windy Apennines, 150 
Mantled and musical with pines. 


The palaces, the princely halls, 

The doors of houses and the walls 

Of churches and of belfry towers, 

Cloister and castle, street and 
mart, 

Are garlanded and gay with flow- 
ers 

That blossom in the fields of arf. 

Here Gubbio’s workshops gleam 
and glow 

With brilliant, iridescent dyes, 

The dazzling whiteness of the 
snow, 160 

The cobalt blue of summer skies ; 

And vase and scutcheon, cup and 
plate, 

In perfect finish emulate 

Faenza, Florence, Pesaro. 


Forth from Urbino’s gate there 
came 

A youth with the angelic name 

Of Raphael, in form and face 

Himself angelic, and divine 

In arts of color and design. 


From him Francesco Xanto 
caught 170 

Something of his transcendent 
grace, 


And into fictile fabrics wrought 

Suggestions of the master’s 
thought. 

Nor less Maestro Giorgio shines 

With madre-peri and golden lines 

Of arabesques, and interweaves 

His birds and fruits and flowers 
and leaves 

About some landscape, 
brown, 

With olive tints on rock and town. 


shaded 


Behold this cup within whose 
bowl, 180 

Upon a ground of deepest blue 

With yellow-lustred stars o’erlaid, 

Colors of every tint and hue 

Mingle in one harmonious whole! 

With large blue eyes and steadfast 
gaze, 


Her yellow hair in net and braid, 
Necklace and ear-rings all ablaze 
With golden lustre o’er the glaze, 
A woman’s portrait; onthe seroll, 
Cana, the Beautiful! A name igo 
Forgotten save for such brief fame 
As this memorial can bestow, — 
A gift some lover long ago 
Gave with his heart to this fair 
dame. 


A nobler title to renown 
Is thine, O pleasant Tuscan town, 
Seated beside the Arno’s stream ; 
For Luca della Robbia there 
Created forms so wondrous fair, 
They made thy sovereignty su- 
preme, 200 
These choristers with lips of stone, 
Whose music is not heard, but 
seen, 
Still chant, as from their organ- 
screen, 
Their Maker’s praise; nor these 
alone, 
But the more fragile forms of clay, 
Hardly less beautiful than they, 
These saints and angels that adorn 
The walls of hospitals, and tell 
The story of good deeds so well 
That poverty seenis less forlorn, 
And life more like a holiday. arr 


Here in this old neglected church, 

That long eludes the traveller’s 
search, 

Lies the dead bishop on his tomb; 

Earth upon earth he slumbering 
lies, 

Life-like and death-like in the 
gloom: 

Garlands of fruif and flowers in 
bloom 

And foliage deck his resting-place ; 

A shadow in the sightless eyes, 

A pallor on the patient face, 22a 

Made perfect by the furnace heat; 

All earthly passions and desires 

Burnt out by purgatorial fires; 

Seeming to say, ‘Our years ara 
fleet, 

And to the weary death is sweet.’ 


432 





But the most wonderful of all 
The ornaments on tomb or wall 
That grace the fair Ausonian 


shores 

Are those the faithful earth re- 
stores, 

Near some Apulian town con- 
cealed, 230 


In vineyard or in harvest field, — 
Vases and urns and bas-reliefs, 
Memorials of forgotten griefs, 
Or records of heroic deeds 
Of demigods and mighty chiefs: 
Figures that almost move and 
speak, 

buried amid mould and 
weeds, 
Still in their attitudes attest 

The presence of the graceful 

Greek, — 

Achilles in his armor dressed, 240 
Alcides with the Cretan bull, 
And Aphrodite with her boy, 
Or lovely Helena of Troy, 
Still living and still beautiful. 


And, 


Turn, turn, my wheel! °T is na- 
ture’s plan 
The child should grow into the 
man, 
The man grow wrinkled, old, 
and gray ; 
In youth the heart exults and 


sings, 

The pulses leap, the feet have 
wings ; 

In age the cricket chirps, and 
brings 250 


The harvest-home of day. 


And now the winds that south- 
ward blow, 

And cool the hot Sicilian isle, 

Bear me away. I see below 

The long line of the Libyan Nile, 

Flooding and feeding the parched 
lands 

With annual ebb and overflow, 

A fallen palm whose branches lie 

Beneath the Abyssinian sky, 

Whose roots are in Egyptian 
sands. 260 


KERAMOS 





On either bank huge water-wheels, 

Belted with jars and dripping 

weeds, 

forth 

moans, 

As if, in their gray mantles hid, 

Dead anchorites of the Thebaid 

Knelt on the shore and told their 
beads, 

Beating their breasts with loud 
appeals 

And penitential tears and groans. 


Send their melancholy 


This city, walled and thickly set 

With glittering mosque and mina- 
ret, 270 

Is Cairo, in whose gay bazaars 

The dreaming traveller first in- 
hales 

The perfume of Arabian gales, 

And sees the fabulous earthen 
jars, 

Huge as were those wherein the 
maid 

Morgiana found the Forty Thieves 

Concealed in midnight ambuseade ; 

And seeing, more than half be- 
lieves 

The fascinating tales that run 

Through all the Thousand Nights 
and One, 280 

Told by the fair Scheherezade. 


More strange and wonderful than 
these 

Are the Egyptian deities, 

Ammon, and Emeth, and the grand 

Osiris, holding in his hand 

The lotus; Isis, crowned and 
veiled; ; 

The sacred Ibis, and the Sphinx ; 

Bracelets with blue enamelled 
links ; 

The Scarabee in emerald mailed, 

Or spreading wide his funeral 
wihgs ; 290 

Lamps that perchance their night- 
watch kept 

O’er Cleopatra while she slept, — 

All plundered from the tombs of 
kings. 


KERAMOS 


433 





Turn, turn, my wheel! The hu- 
man race, 

vf every tongue, of every place, 
Caucasian, Coptic, or Malay, 

4ll that inhabit this great earth, 

Whatever be their rank or worth, 

Are kindred and allied by birth, 
And made of the same clay. 


Over desert sands, o’er gulf and 
bay, 301 

O’er Ganges and o’er Himalay, 

Bird-like I fly, and flying sing, 

To flowery kingdoms of Cathay, 

And bird-like poise on balanced 
wing 

Above the town of King-te-tching, 

A burning town, or seeming so, — 

Three thousand furnaces that glow 

Incessantly, and fill the air 

With smoke uprising, gyre on 
gyre, 310 

And painted by the lurid glare, 

Of jets and flashes of red fire. 


As leaves that in the autumn fall, 

Spotted and veined with various 
hues, 

Are swept along the avenues, 

And lie in heaps by hedge and 
wall, 

So from this grove of chimneys 
whirled 

To all the markets of the world, 

These porcelain leaves are wafted 


on, 
Light yellow leaves with spots and 
stains 320 


Of violet and of crimson dye, 
Or tender azure of a sky 


Just washed by gentle April rains, , 


And beautiful with celadon. 


Nor less the coarser household 
wares, 

The willow pattern, that we knew 

In childhood, with its bridge of 
blue ' 

Leading to unknown thorough- 
fares; 

The solitary man who stares 


At the white river flowing through 
Its arches, the fantastic trees 331 
And wild perspective of the view; 
And intermingled among these 

The tiles that in our nurseries 

Filled us with wonder and delight, 
Or haunted us in dreams at night. 


And yonder by Nankin, behold! 

The Tower of Porcelain, strange 
and old, 

Uplifting to the astonished skies 

Its ninefold painted balconies, 340 

With balustrades of twining leaves, 

And roofs of tile, beneath whose 
eaves 

Hang porcelain bells that all the 
time 

Ring with a soft, melodious chime ; 

While the whole fabric is ablaze 

With varied tints, all fused in 
one 

Great mass of color, like a maze 

Of flowers illumined by the sun. 


Turn, turn, my wheel! What is 


begun 

At daybreak must at dark be 
done, 350 
To-morrow will be another 
day ; 


To-morrow the hot furnace flame 
Will search the heart and try the 
frame, 
And stamp with honor or with 
shame 
These vessels made of clay. 


Cradled and rocked in Eastern. 
seas, 

The islands of the Japanese 

Beneath me lie; o’er lake and 
plain - 

The stork, the heron, and the 
crane 

Through the clear realms of azure 
drift, 360 

And on the hillside I can see 

The villages of Imari, 

Whose thronged and flaming work- 
shops lift 


434 


aa 


KERAMOS 





Their twisted columns of smoke 
on high, 

Cloud cloisters that in ruins lie, 

With sunshine streaming through 
each rift, 

And broken arches of blue sky. 


All the bright flowers that fill the 
land, 

Ripple of waves on rock or sand, 

The snow on Fusiyama’s cone, 370 

The midnight heaven so thickly 
sown 

With constellations of bright stars, 

The leaves that rustle, the reeds 
that make 

A whisper by each stream and 
lake, 

The saffron dawn, the sunset red, 

Are painted on these lovely jars; 

Again the skylark sings, again 

The stork, the heron, and the crane 

Float through the azure over- 


head, 
The counterfeit and counter- 
part 380 


Of Nature reproduced in Art. 


Art is the child of Nature; yes, 

Her darling. child, in whom we 
trace 

The features of the mother’s face, 

Her aspect and her attitude ; 

All her majestic loveliness 

Chastened and softened and sub- 
dued 

Into a more attractive grace, 

And with a human sense imbued. 


‘He is the greatest artist, then, 390 
Whether of pencil or of pen, 





Who follows Nature. 

As artist or as artisan, 

Pursuing his own fantasies, 

Can touch the human heart, or 
please, 

Or satisfy our nobler needs, 

As he who sets his willing feet 

In Nature’s footprints, light and 
fleet, 

And follows fearless where she 
leads. 


Never man, 


Thus mused I on that morn in 
May, 400 

Wrapped in my visions like the 
Seer, 

Whose eyes behold not what is 
near, 

But only what is far away, 

When, suddenly sounding peal on 
peal, 

The church-bell from the neighbor- 
ing town 

Proclaimed the welcome hour of 
noon. 

The Potter heard, and stopped his 
wheel, 

His apron on the grass threw 
down, 

Whistled his quiet little tune, 

Not overloud nor overlong, 410 

And ended thus his simple song: 

Stop, stop, my wheel! Too soon, 
too soon 

The noon will be the afternoon, 

Too soon to-day be yesterday ; 

Behind us in our path we cast 

The broken potsherds of the past, 

And all are ground to dust at last, 

And trodden into clay! 


AJDUTCH IPIGTURE 


435 





BIKDSsORMPASSAGE 
FLIGHT THE FIFTH 


THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD 


WARM and still is the summer 
night, 
As here by the river’s brink I 
“wander ; 
White overhead are the stars, and 
white 
The glimmering lamps on the 
hillside yonder. 


Silent are all the sounds of day ; 
Nothing I hear but the chirp of 
crickets, 
And the cry of the herons winging 
their way 
O’er the poet’s house in the Elm- 
wood thickets. 


Call to him, herons, as slowly you 
pass 
To your roosts in the haunts of 
the exiled thrushes, 
Sing him the song of the green 
morass, 
And the tides that water the 
reeds and rushes. 


Sing him the mystical Song of the 
Hern, 
And the secret that baffles our 
utmost seeking; 
For only a sound of lament we dis- 
cern, 
And cannot interpret the words 
you are speaking. 


Sing of the air, and the wild delight 
Of wings that uplift and winds 
that uphold you, 
The joy of freedom, the rapture of 
flight 
Through the drift of the floating 
mists that infold you; 


Of the landscape lying so far be- 
low, 
With its towns and rivers and 
desert places ; 
And the splendor of light above, 
and the glow 
Of the limitless, blue, ethereal 
spaces. 


Ask him if songs of the Trouba- 
dours, 
Or of Minnesingers in old black- 
letter, 
Sound in his ears more sweet than 
yours, 
And if yours are not sweeter anu 
wilder and better. 


Sing to him, say to him, here at his 
gate, 
Where the boughs of the stately 
elms are meeting, 
Some one hath lingered to medi- 
tate, 
And send him unseen 
friendly greeting; 


this 


That many another hath done the 
same, 
Though not by a sound was the 
silence broken; 
The surest pledge of a deathless 
name 
Is the silent homage of thoughts 
unspoken. 


A DUTCH PICTURE 


SIMON DANZ has come home 
again, 
From cruising about with hi, 
buccaneers; 
He has singed the beard of the 
King of Spain, 


436 


And carried away the Dean of 
Jaen 
And sold him in Algiers. 


In his house by the Maese, with 
its roof of tiles, 
And weathercocks flying aloft 
in air, 
There are silver tankards of an- 
tique styles, 
Plunder of convent and castle, and 
piles 
Of carpets rich and rare. 


in his tulip-garden there by the 
town, 
Overlooking the sluggish stream, 
With his Moorish cap and dressing- 
gown, 
The old sea-captain, hale and 
brown, 
Walks in a waking dream. 


A smile in his gray mustachio 
lurks 
Whenever he thinks of the King 
of Spain, 
And the listed tulips look like 
Turks, 
And the silent gardener as he 
works 
Is changed to the Dean of Jaen. 


The windmills on the outermost 
Verge of the landscape in the 
haze, 
To him are towers on the Spanish 
coast, 
With whiskered sentinels at thelr 
post, 
Though this is the river Maese. 


But when the winter rains be- 
gin, 
He sits and smokes by the blaz- 
ing brands, 
And old seafaring men come in, 
troat-bearded, gray, and with 
double chin, 
And rings upon their hands. 


BIRDS OF 


PASSAGE 





They sit there in the shadow and 
shine 
Of the flickering fire of the 
winter night; 
Figures in color and design 
Like those by Rembrandt of the 
Rhine, 
Half darkness and half light. 


And they talk of ventures lost or 
won, 
And their talk is ever and ever 
the same, 
While they drink the red wine of 
Tarragon, 
From the cellars of some Spanish 
Don, 
Or convent set on flame. 


Restless at times with heavy 
strides 
He paces his parlor to and fro; 
He is like a ship that at anchor 
rides, 
And swings with the rising and 
falling tides, 
And tugs at her anchor-tow. 


Voices mysterious far and near, 
Sound of the wind and sound of 


the sea, 

Are calling and whispering in his 
ear, 

‘Simon Danz! Why stayest thou 
here ? 


Come forth and follow me!’ 


So he thinks he shall take to the 
sea again 
For one more cruise with his 
buccaneers, 
To singe the beard of the King of 
Spain, ' 
And capture another Dean of Jaen 
And sell him in Algiers. 


CASTLES IN SPAIN 


How much of my young heart, 0 
Spain, 
Went out to thee in days of yore! 


CASTLES 


IN SPAIN 


437 





What dreams romantic filled my 
brain, 
And summoned back to life again 
The Paladins of Charlemagne, 
The Cid Campeador! 


And shapes more shadowy than 
these, 
In the dim twilight half re- 
vealed; 
Phoenician galleys on the seas, 
The Roman camps like hives of 
bees, 10 
The Goth uplifting from his knees 
Pelayo on his shield. 


It was these memories perchance, 
From annals of remotest eld, 
That lent the colors of romance 
To every trivial circumstance, 
And changed the form and counte- 
nance 
Of all that I beheld. 


Old towns, whose history lies 
hid 
monkish chronicle or 
rhyme, — 20 
Burgos, the birthplace of the Cid, 
Zamora and Valladolid, 
Toledo, built and walled amid 
The wars of Wamba’s time; 


In 


The long, straight line of the high- 


way, 
The distant town that seems so 
near, 
The peasants in the fields, that 
stay 
Their toil to cross themselves and 
pray, 
When from the belfry at midday 
The Angelus they hear ; 30 


White crosses in the mountain 
pass, 
Mules gay with tassels, the loud 
din 
Of muleteers, the tethered ass 
That crops the dusty wayside 
grass, 


And cavaliers with spurs of brass 
Alighting at the inn; 


White hamlets hidden in fields of 
wheat, 
White cities slumbering by the 
sea, 
White sunshine flooding square 
and street, 
Dark mountain ranges, at whose 
feet 40 
The river beds are dry with heat,— 
All was a dream to me. 


Yet something sombre and severe 
Over the enchanted landscape 
reigned ; 
A. terror in the atmosphere 
As if King Philip listened near, 
Or Torquemada, the austere, 
His ghostly sway maintained. 


The softer Andalusian skies 
Dispelled the sadness and the 
gloom ; 50 
There Cadiz by the seaside lies, 
And Seville’s orange-orchards rise, 
Making the land a paradise 
Of beauty and of bloom. 


There Cordova is hidden among 
The palm, the olive, and the 
vine; 
Gem of the South, by poets sung, 
And in whose mosque Almanzor 


hung 

As lamps the bells that once had 
rung 

At Compostella’s shrine. 60 


But over all the rest supreme, 
The star of stars, the cynosure, 
The artist’s and the poet’s theme, 
The young man’s vision, the old 
man’s dream, — 
Granada by its winding stream. 
The city of the Moor! 


And there the Alhambra still re 
ealls 
Aladdin’s palace of delight: 


438 


BIRDS OF 


PASSAGE 





Allah il Allah! through its halls 
Whispers the fountain as it falls, 


The Darro darts beneath its 
walls, 71 
The hills with snow are white. 


Ah yes, the hills are white with 
snow, 
And cold with blasts that bite 
and freeze ; 
But in the happy vale below 
The orange and pomegranate 
grow, 
And wafts of air toss to and fro 
The blossoming almond trees. 


The Vega cleft by the Xenil, 
The fascination and allure 80 
Of the sweet landscape chains the 
will; 
The traveller lingers on the hill, 
His parted lips are breathing still 
The last sigh of the Moor. 


How like a ruin overgrown 
With flowers that hide the rents 
of time, 
Stands now the Past that I have 
known; 
Castles in Spain, not built of 
stone 
But of white summer clouds, and 
blown 
Into this little mist of rhyme ! 90 


VITTORIA COLONNA 


Vittoria Colonna, on the death of her 
husband, the Marchese di Pescara, re- 
tired to her castle at Ischia (Inarimé), 
and there wrote the Ode upon his death 
which gained her the title of Divine. 


ONCE more, once more, Inarimé, 
I see thy purple halls !—once 
more 
T hear the billows of the bay 
Wash the white pebbles on thy 
silore. 


High o’er the sea-surge and the 
sands, 

Like a great galleon wrecked 
and cast 
Ashore by storms, 

stands, 
A mouldering landmark of the 
Past. 


thy castie 


Upon its terrace-walk I see 
A phantom gliding to and fro; 
It is Colonna, —it is she 
Who lived and loved so long 
ago. 


Peseara’s beautiful young wife, 
The type of perfect womanhood, 
Whose life was love, the life of 
life, 
That time and change and death 
withstood. 


For death, that breaks the mar- 
riage band 
In others, only closer pressed 
The wedding-ring upon her hand 
And closer locked and barred 
her breast. 


She knew the life-long martyr- 
dom, 
The weariness, the endless pain 
Of waiting for some one to come 
Who nevermore would come 
again. 


The shadows of the chestnut trees, 
The odor of the orange blooms, 
The song of birds, and, more than 

these, 
The silence of deserted rooms ; 


The respiration of the sea, 
The soft caresses of the air. 
All things in nature seemed fo 
be 
But ministers of her despair ; 


Till the o’erburdened heart, so 
long : 
Imprisoned in itself, found vent 


TO THE RIVER YVETTE 


= 


And voice in one impassioned song 
Of inconsolable lament. 


Then as the sun, though hidden 
from sight, 
Transmutes to gold the leaden 
mist, 
Her life was interfused with light, 
From realms that, though un- 
seen, exist. 


Inarimé! Inarimé! 
Thy castle on the crags above 
- In dust shall crumble and decay, 
But not the memory of her 
love. 


THE REVENGE OF RAIN- 
IN-THE-FACE 


IN that desolate land and lone, 
Where the Big Horn and Yellow- 
stone 


Roar down their mountain path, |. 


By their fires the Sioux Chiefs 
Muttered their woes and griefs 
And the menace of their wrath. 
*Revenge!’ cried Rain -in-the- 
Face, 
* Revenge upon all the race 
Of the White Chief with yellow 
hair!? 
And the mountains dark and high 
From their crags reéchoed the ery 
Of his anger and despair. 


In the meadow, spreading wide 

By woodland and river-side 
The Indian village stood; 

All was silent as a dream, 

Save the rushing of the stream 
And the blue-jay in the wood. 


Tn his war paint and his beads, 

Like a bison among the reeds, 
In ambush the Sitting Bull 

Lay with three thousand braves 

Crouched in the clefts and caves 
Savage, unmerciful! 


439 


——$ 


Into the fatal snare 
The White Chief with yellow hair 
And his three hundred men 
Dashed headlong, sword in hand; 
But of that gallant band 
Not one returned again. 


The sudden darkness of death 
Overwhelmed them like the breath 
And smoke of a furnace fire: 
By the river’s bank, and between 
The rocks of the ravine, 
They lay in their bloody attire. 


But the foemen fled in the night, 
And Rain-in-the-Face, in his flight, 
Uplifted high in air 
As a ghastly trophy, bore 
The brave heart, that beat no 
more, 
Of the White Chief with yellow 
hair. 


Whose was the right and the 
wrong? 
Sing it, O funeral song, 
. With a voice that is full of tears, 
And say that our broken faith 
Wrought all this ruin and scathe, 
In the Year of a Hundred Years. 


TO THE RIVER YVETTE 


O LOVELY river of Yvette! 
O darling river! like a bride, 
Some dimpled, bashful, fair Li- 
sette, 
Thou goest to wed the Orge’s 
tide. 


Maincourt, and lordly Dampierre, 
See and salute thee on thy 
way, 
And, with a blessing and a prayer, 
Ring the sweet bells of St. For- 
get. 


The valley of Chevreuse in vain 
Would hold thee in its fond em 
brace; 


BIRDS OF 





Thou glidest from its arms again 
And hurriest on with swifter 
pace. 


Thou wilt not stay; with restless 
feet, 
Pursuing 
flight, 
Thou goest as one in haste to meet 
Her sole desire, her heart’s de- 
light... 


still thine onward 


O lovely river of Yvette! 
O darling stream! on balanced 


wings 
The wood-birds sang the chanson- 
nette 
That here a wandering poet 
sings. 


THE EMPEROR’S GLOVE 


*Combien faudrait-il de peaux d’Es- 
pagne pour faire un gant de cette gran- 
deur?’ A play upon the words gant, a 
glove, and Gand, the French for Ghent. 


ON St. Bavon’s tower, command- 
ing 
Half of Flanders, his domain, 
Charles the Emperor once was 
standing, 
While beneath him on the landing 
Stood Duke Alva and his train. 


Like a print in books of fables, 

Or a model made for show, 
With its pointed roofs and gables, 
Dormer windows, scrolls and 

labels, 

Lay the city far below. 


Through its squares and streets 
and alleys 
Poured the populace of Ghent; 
As a routed army rallies, 
Or as rivers run through valleys, 
Hurrying to their homes they 
went. 


Nest of Lutheran misbelievers!’ 
Cried Duke Alva as he gazed; 





PASSAGE 


‘Haunt of traitors and deceivers, 
Stronghold of insurgent weavers, 
Let it to the ground be razed.’ 





On the Emperor’s cap the feather 
Nods, as laughing he replies : 
‘How many skins of Spanish 

leather, 
Think you, would, if stitched to- 
gether, 
Make a glove of such a size?’ 


A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH 
FLEET 


OCTOBER, 1746. 
Mr. THOMAS PRINCE loquitur 


A FLEET with flags arrayed 
Sailed from the port of Brest, 
And the Admiral’s ship displayed 
The signal: * Steer southwest.’ 

For this Admiral D’Anville 
Had sworn by cross and crown 
To ravage with fire and steel 
Our helpless Boston Town. 


There were rumors in the street, 
In the houses there was fear 
Of the coming of the fleet, 

And the danger hovering near. 
And while from mouth to mouth 
Spread the tidings of dismay, 

I stood in the Old South, 
Saying humbly: ‘ Let us pray! 


‘O Lord! we would not advise; 
But if in thy Providence 
A tempest should arise 
To drive the French Fleet hencg 
And scatter it far and wide, 
Or sink it in the sea, 
We should be satisfied, 
And thine the glory be.’ 


This was the prayer I made, 
For my soul was all on flame, 
And even as I prayed 
The answering tempest came; 
It came with a mighty power, 


THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG 


44x 





Shaking the windows and walls, 
And tolling the bell in the tower, 
As it tolls at funerals. 


The lightning suddenly 
Unsheathed its flaming sword, 
And I cried: ‘Stand still, and see 
The salvation of the Lord!’ 
The heavens were black with 
cloud, 
The sea was white with hail, 
And ever more fierce and loud 
Blew the October gale. 


The fleet it overtook, 
And the broad sails in the van 
Like the tents of Cushan shook, 
Or the curtains of Midian. 
Down on the reeling decks 
Crashed the o’erwhelming seas ; 
Ah, never were there wrecks 
So pitiful as these! 


Like a potter’s vessel broke 
The great ships of the line; 
They were carried away as a 
smoke, 
Or sank like lead in the brine. 
O Lord! before thy path 
They vanished and ceased to be, 
When thou didst walk in wrath 
With thine horses through the 
sea! 


THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG 


MOUNTED on Kyrat strong and 
fleet, 


His chestnut steed with four white |. 


feet, ‘ 
Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou, 
Son of the road and bandit chief, 
Seeking refuge and relief, 
Up the mountain pathway flew. 


Such was Kyrat’s wondrous speed, 

Never yet could any steed 

Reach the dust-cloud 
course. 


in his 


9 
More than maiden, more than wife, |‘ 


More than gold and next to life 
Roushan the Robber loved his 
horse. 


In the land that lies beyond 
Erzeroum and Trebizond, 
Garden-girt his fortress stood: 
Plundered khan, or caravan 
Journeying north from Koordistar, 
Gave him wealth and wine and 
food. 


Seven hundred and fourscore 
Men at arms his livery wore, 20 
Did his bidding night and day; 
Now, through regions all unknown, 

He was wandering, lost, alone, 
Seeking without guide his way. 


Suddenly the pathway ends, 
Sheer the precipice descends, 
Loud the torrent roars unseen ; 
Thirty feet from side to side 
Yawns the chasm; on air must 
ride 
He who crosses this ravine. 30 


Following close in his pursuit, 
At the precipice’s foot 
Reyhan the Arab of Orfah 
Halted with his hundred men, 
Shouting upward from the glen, 
‘La Illah illa Allah!’ 


Gently Roushan Beg caressed 
Kyrat’s forehead, neck, and breast; 
Kissed him upon both his eyes, 
Sang to him in his wild way, 40 
As upon the topmost spray 
Sings a bird before it flies. 


‘Omy Kyrat, O my steed, 

Round and slender as a reed, 
Carry me this peril through! 

Satin housings shall be thine, 

Shoes of gold, O Kyrat mine, 
O thou soul of Kurroglou! 


* Soft thy skin as silken skein, 
Soft as woman’s hair thy mane, 5a 
Tender are thine eyes and true: 


442 


BIRDS OF PASSAGE 





All thy hoofs like ivory shine, 
Polished bright; O life of mine, 
Leap, and rescue Kurroglou!? 


Kyrat, then, the strong and fleet, 
Drew together his four white feet, 
Paused a moment on the verge, 
Measured with his eye the space, 

And into the air’s embrace 
Leaped as leaps the ocean 
surge. 60 


As the ocean surge o’er sand 
Bears a swimmer Safe to land, 
Kyrat safe his rider bore; 
Rattling down the deep abyss 
Fragments of the precipice 
Rolled like pebbles on a shore. 


Roushan’s tasselled cap of red 

Trembled not upon his head, 
Careless sat he and upright; 

Neither hand nor bridle shook, 70 

Nor his head he turned to look, 
As he galloped out of sight. 


Flash of harness in the air, 
Seen a moment like the glare 
Of a sword drawn from its 
sheath; 
Thus , the 
passed, 
And the shadow that he cast 
Leaped the cataract underneath. 


phantom horseman 


Reyhan the Arab held his breath 
While this vision of life and death 
Passed above him. ‘ Allahu!’ 
Cried he. ‘In all Koordistan 82 
Lives there not so brave a man 
As this Robber Kurroglou!?’ 


HAROUN AL RASCHID 


ONE day, Haroun Al Raschid read 
A book wherein the poet said: — 


*Where are the kings, and where 
the rest 

Of those who once the world pos- 
sessed? 


‘ They ’re gone with all their pomp 
and show, 

They’re gone the way that thou 
shalt go. 


‘O thou who choosest for thy 
share 

The world, and what the world 
calls fair, 


‘Take all that it can give or lend, 
But know that death is at theend!? 


Haroun Al Raschid bowed his 
head: 
Tears fell upon the page he read. 


KING TRISANKU 


VISWAMITRA the Magician, 
By his spells and incantations, 
Up to Indra’s realms elysian 
Raised Trisanku, king of na 
tions. 


Indra and the gods offended 
Hurled him downward, and de 
scending 
In the air he hung suspended, 
With these equal powers con 
tending. 


Thus by aspirations lifted, 
By misgivings downward driven, 
Human hearts are tossed and 
drifted 
Midway between earth and hea- 
ven. 


A WRAITH IN THE MIST 


‘Sir, I should build me a fortifica- 
tion, if I came to live here.’ — Bos. 
WELL’s Johnson. 


On the green little isle of Inch- 
kenneth, 
Who is it that walks by the 
shore, 


THE THREE KINGS 


(Sa eee 


So gay with his Highland blue 
bonnet, 
So brave with his targe and clay- 
more? 


His form is the form of a giant, 
But his face wears an aspect of 
pain; 
Can this be the Laird of Inchken- 
neth? 
Can this be Sir Allan McLean? 


Ah, no! It is only the Ram- 
bler, 
The Idler, who lives in Bolt 
Court, 
And who says, were he Laird of 
Inchkenneth, 
He would wall himself round 
with a fort. 


THE THREE KINGS 


THREE Kings came riding from 
far away, 
Melchior and Gaspar and Balta- 
sar; 
Three Wise Men out of the East 
were they, 
And they travelled by night and 
they slept by day, 
For their guide was a beautiful, 
wonderful star. 


The star was so beautiful, large, 
and clear, 
That all the other stars of the 
sky 
Became a white mist in the at- 
mosphere, 
And by this they knew that the 
coming was near 
Of the Prince foretold in the pro- 
phecy. 10 


Three caskets they bore on their 
saddle-bows, 
Three caskets of goid with golden 
keys; 


443 


Their robes were of crimson silk 
with rows 
Of bells and pomegranates and fur- 
belows, 
Their turbans like blossoming 
almond-trees. 


And so the Three Kings rode into 
the West, 
Through the dusk of night, over 
hill and dell, 
And sometimes they nodded with 
beard on breast, 
And sometimes talked, as they 
paused to rest, 
With the people they met at 
some wayside well. 20 


‘Of the child that is born,’ said 
Baltasar, 
‘Good people, I pray you, tell 
us the news; 
For we in the East have seen his 
star, 
And have ridden fast, and have 
ridden far, 
To find and worship the King of 
the Jews.’ 


And the people answered, ° You 
ask in vain ; 
We know of no king but Herod 
the Great! 
‘fhey thought the Wise Men were 
men insane, 
As they spurred their horses 
across the plain, 
Like riders in haste, and who 
cannot wait. 30 


And when they came to Jerusa- 
lem, 
Herod the Great, who had heard 
this thing, 
Sent for the Wise Men and ques. 
tioned them ; 
And said,’Go down unto Bethle- 
hem, 
And bring me tidings of this 
new king.’ 


444 BIRDS OF 


So they rode away; and the star 
stood still, 
The only one in the gray of 
morn; 
Yes, it stopped, — it stood still of 
its own free will, 
Right over Bethlehem on the hill, 
The city of David, where Christ 
was born. 40 


And the Three Kings rode through 
the gate and the guard, 
Through the silent street, till 
their horses turned 
And neighed as they entered the 
great inn-yard ; 
But the windows were closed, and 
the doors were barred, 
And only a light in the stable 
burned. 


And cradled there in the scented 
hay, 
In the air made sweet by the 
breath of kine, 
The little child in the manger 
lay, 
The child, that would be king one 
day 
Of a kingdom not human but di- 
vine. 50 


His mother Mary of Nazareth 
Sat watching beside his place of 
rest, 
Watching the even flow of his 
breath, 
For the joy of life and the terror 
of death 
Were mingled together in her 
breast. 


They laid their offerings at his 
feet: 
The gold was their tribute to a 
King, 
The frankincense, with its odor 
sweet, 
Was for the Priest, the Paraclete, 


The myrrh for the body’s bury-. 


ing. 60 


PASSAGE 


——) 


And the mother wondered and 
bowed her head, 
And sat as still as a statue of 
stone; 
Her heart was troubled yet com 
forted, 
Remembering what the Angel had 
said 
Of an endless reign and of Da- 
vid’s throne. 


Then the Kings rode out of the 
city gate, 
With a clatter of hoofs in proud 
array ; 
But they went not back to Herod 
the Great, 
For they knew his malice and 
feared his hate, 
And returned to their homes by 
another way. 7a 


SONG 

STAY, stay at home, my heart, and 
rest; 

Home - keeping hearts are hap. 
piest, 

For those that wander they know 
not where 

Are full of trouble and full of 
care ; 


To stay at home is best. 


Weary and homesick and dis- 
tressed, 

They wander east, they wander 
west, 

And are baffled and beaten and 
blown about 

By the winds of the wilderness of 
doubt; 

To stay at home is best. 


Then stay at home, my heart, and 
. Festi 
The bird is safest in its nest ; 
O’er ae that flutter their wings and 
y 


DELIA 





A hawk is hovering in the sky; 
To stay at home is best. 


THE WHITE CZAR 


The White Czar is Peter the Great. 
Batyushka, Father dear,and Gosudar, 
Sovereign, are titles the Russian peo- 
ple are fond of giving to the Czar in 
their popular songs. 


Dost thou see on the rampart’s 
height 
That wreath of mist, in the light 
Of the midnight moon? Oh, hist! 
It is not a wreath of mist; 
It is the Czar, the White Czar, 
Batyushka! Gosudar! 


He has heard, among the dead, 

The artillery roll o’erhead ; 

The drums and the tramp of feet 

Of his soldiery in the street; 

He is awake! the White Czar, 
Batyushka: Gosudar! 


He has heard in the grave the 
cries 
Of his people: ‘ Awake! arise!’ 
He has rent the gold brocade 
Whereof his shroud was made; 
He is risen! the White Czar, 
Batyushka! Gosudar! 


From the Volga and the Don 

He has led his armies on, 

Over river and morass, 

Over desert and mountain pass: 

The Czar, the Orthodox Czar, 
Batyushka! Gosudar! 


He looks from the mountain-chain 
Toward the seas, that cleave in 
twain 


445 





The continents ; his hand 

Points southward o’er the land 

Of Roumili! O Czar, 
Batyushka! Gosudar! 


And the words break from his 
lips: 

‘IT am the builder of ships, 

And my ships shall sail these 
seas 

To the Pillars of Hercules! 

I say it; the White Czar, 

Batyushka! Gosudar! 


‘The Bosphorus shall be free; 

It shall make room for me; 

And the gates of its water-streets 

Be unbarred before my fleets. 

I say it; the White Czar, 
Batyushka! Gosudar! 


‘ And the Christian shall no more 
Be crushed, as heretofore, 
Beneath thine iron rule, 

O Sultan of Istamboul! 


I swear it! I the Czar, 
Batyushka! Gosudar !? 
DELIA 


SWEET as the tender fragrance 
that survives, 

When martyred flowers breathe 
out their little lives, 

Sweet as a song that once consoled 
our pain, 

But never will be sung to us again, 

Is thy remembrance. Now the 
hour of rest 

Hath come to thee. 
ling; it is best. 


Sleep, dar 


446 





ULTIMA 


DEDICATION 
TO G. W. G. 


Wit favoring winds, o’er sunlit 
seas, 

We sailed for the Hesperides, 

The land where golden apples 
grow ; 

But that, ah! that was long ago. 


How far since then the ocean 
streams 

Have swept us from the land of 
dreams, 

That land of fiction and of truth, 

The lost Atlantis of our youth! 


Whither, ah, whither? Are not 
these 

The tempest-haunted Orcades, 

Where sea-gulls scream, and break- 
ers roar, 

And wreck and sea-weed line the 
shore ? 


Ultima Thule! Utmost Isle! 

Here in thy harbors for a while 

We lower our sails; a while we 
rest 

From the unending, endless quest. 


POEMS 


BAYARD TAYLOR 


DEAD he lay among his books! 
The peace of God was in his looks. 


As the statues in the gloom 
Watch o’er Maximilian’s tomb, 


So those volumes from their 
shelves 
Watched him, silent as themselves. 


ULTIMA THULE 


THULE 


Ah! his hand will nevermore 
Turn their storied pages o’er ; 


Nevermore his lips repeat 
Songs of theirs, however sweet. 


Let the lifeless body rest! 
He is gone, who was its guest; 


Gone, as travellers haste to leave 
An inn, nor tarry until eve. 


Traveller! in what realms afar, 
In what planet, in what star, 


In what vast, aerial space, 
Shines the light upon thy face ? 


In what gardens of delight 
Rest thy weary feet to-night ? 


Poet! thou, whose latest verse 
Was a garland on thy hearse; 


Thou hast sung, with organ tone, 
In Deukalion’s life, thine own; 


On the ruins of the Past 
Blooms the perfect flower at last. 


Friend! but yesterday the bells 
Rang for thee their loud farewells; 


And to-day they toll for thee, 
Lying dead beyond the sea; 


Lying dead among thy books, 
The peace of God in all thy looks! 


THE CHAMBER OVER THE 
GATE 


Is it so far from thee 

Thou canst no longer see, 

In the Chamber over the Gate, 
That old man desolate, 


FROM MY ARM-CHAIR 





Weeping and wailing sore 
For his son, who is no more? 
O Absalom, my son! 


Is it so long ago 

That cry of human woe 

From the walled city came, 

Calling on his dear name, 

That it has died away 

In the distance of to-day? 
O Absalom, my son! 


There is no far or near, 
There is neither there nor here, 
There is neither soon nor late, 
In that Chamber over the Gate, 
Nor any long ago 
To that ery of human woe, 

O Absalom, my son! 


from the ages that are past 
[he voice sounds like a blast, 
Dver seas that wreck and drown, 
Over tumult of traffic and town ; 
And from ages yet to be 
Come the echoes back to me, 

O Absalom, my son! 


Somewhere at every hour 
The watchman on the tower 
Looks forth, and sees the fleet 
Approach of the hurrying feet 
Of messengers, that bear 
The tidings of despair. 

O Absalom, my son! 


He goes forth from the door, 
Who shall return no more. 
With him our joy departs ; 
The light goes out in our hearts ; 
In the Chamber over the Gate 
We sit disconsolate. 

O Absalom, my son! 


That’t is a common grief 

Bringeth but slight relief ; 

Ours is the bitterest loss, 

Ours is the heaviest cross ; 

And forever the ery will be 

‘Would God I had died for thee, 
O Absalom, my son!’ 


447 





FROM MY ARM-CHAIR 


TO THE CHILDREN OF CAM 
BRIDGE 


WHO PRESENTED TO ME, ON MY 
SEVENTY-SECOND BIRTHDAY, 
FEBRUARY 27, 1879, THIS CHAIR 
MADE FROM THE WOOD OF 
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH’S 
CHESTNUT TREE. 


AM Ia king, that Ishould call my 
own 
This splendid ebon throne ? 
Or by what reason, or what right 
divine, 
Can I proclaim it mine ? 


Only, perhaps, by right divine of 
song 
It may to me belong; 
Only because the spreading chest- 
nut tree 
Of old was sung by me. 


Well I remember it in all its 


prime, 
When in the summer-time 
The affluent foliage of its branches 
made 
A cavern of cool shade. 


There, by the blacksmith’s forge, 
beside the street, 
Its blossoms white and sweet 
Enticed the bees, until it seemed 
alive, 
And murmured like a hive. 


And when the winds of autumn, 
with a shout, 
Tossed its great arms about, 
The shining chestnuts, bursting 
from the sheath, 
Dropped to the ground be- 
neath, 


And now some fragments of its 
branches bare, 
Shaped as a stately chair, 


448 


ULTIMA THULE 





Have by my hearthstone found a 
home at last, 
And whisper of the past. 


The Danish king could not in all 
his pride 
Repel the ocean tide, 
But, seated in this chair, I can in 
rhyme 
Roll back the tide of Time. 


I see again, as one in vision sees, 
The blossoms and the bees, 
And hear the children’s voices 

shout and eall, 
And the brown chestnuts fall. 


I see the smithy with its fires 
aglow, 
I hear the bellows blow, 
And the shrill hammers on the 
anvil beat 
The iron white with heat! 


And thus, dear children, have ye 
made for me 
This day a jubilee, 
And to my more than threescore 
years and ten 
Brought back my youth again. 


The heart hath its own memory, 
like the mind, 

And in it are enshrined 
precious keepsakes, 
whichis wrought 

The giver’s loving thought. 


The into 


Only your love and your remem.- | 


brance could 
Give life to this dead wood, 
And make these brauches, leafless 
now so long, 
Blossom again in song. 


JUGURTHA 


How cold are thy baths, Apollo! 
Cried the African monarch, the 
splendid, 
As down to his death in the hollow 


Dark dungeons of Rome he de. 
scended, 
Uncrowned, 
tended ; 

How cold are thy baths, Apollo! 


unthroned, unat- 


How cold are thy baths, Apollo! 
Cried the Poet, unknown, unbe- 
friended, 
As the vision, that lured him to 
follow, 
With the mist and the darkness 
blended, 
And the dream of his life was 
ended; 
How cold are thy baths, Apollo! 


THE IRON PEN 


I THOUGHT this Pen would arise 
From the casket where it lies — 

Of itself would arise and write 
My thanks and my surprise. 


When you gave it me under the 
pines, 
I dreamed these gems from the 
mines 
Of Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine 
Would glimmer as thoughts in the 
lines ; 


That this iron link from the chain 
Of Bonnivard might retain 

Some verse of the Poet who sang 
Of the prisoner and his pain ; 


That this wood from the frigate’s 
mast 
Might write me a rhyme at last, 
As it used to write on the sky 
The song of the sea and the blast. 


But motionless as I wait, 
Like a Bishop lying in state 
Lies the Pen, with its mitre of 
gold, 
And its jewels inviolate. 


Then must I speak, and say 
That the light of that summer day 


ROBERT BURNS 


449 





In the garden under the pines 
Shall not fade and pass away. 


I shall see you standing there, 

Caressed by the fragrant air, 
With the shadow on your face, 

And the sunshine on your hair. 


I shall hear the sweet low tone 
Of a voice before unknown, 
Saying, ‘This is from me to 
you — 
From me, and to you alone.’ 


And in words not idle and vain 
I shalt answer and thank you 
again 
For the gift, and the grace of 
the gift, 
O beautiful Helen of Maine! 


And forever this gift will be 
As a blessing from you to me, 
As a drop of the dew of your 
youth 
On the leaves of an aged tree. 


ROBERT BURNS 


I SEE amid the fields of Ayr 
A ploughman, who, in foul and 
fair, 
Sings af his task 
So clear, we know not if it is 
The laverock’s song we hear, or his, 
Nor care to ask. 


For him the ploughing of those 
fields 
A more ethereal harvest yields 
Than sheaves of grain ; 
Songs flush with purple bloom the 
rye, 
The plovevr’s call, the curlew’s cry, 
Sing in his brain. 


Touched by his hand, the wayside 
weed 

Becomes a flower; the lowliest 
reed 


Beside the stream 
Is clothed with beauty; gorse and 
grass 
And heather, where his footsteps 
pass, 
The brighter seem. 


He sings of love, whose flame il- 
lumes 
The darkness of 
rooms; 
He feels the force, 
The treacherous undertow and 
stress 
Of wayward passions, and no less 
The keen remorse. 


lone cottage 


At moments, wrestling with his 
fate, 
His voice is harsh, but not with 
hate ; 
The brush-wood, hung 
Above the tavern door, lets fall 
Its bitter leaf, its drop of gall 
Upon his tongue. 


But still the music of his song 
Rises o’er all, elate and strong; 
Its master-chords 
Are Manhood, Freedom, Brother- 
hood, 
Its discords but an interlude 
Between the words. 


And then to die so young and 
leave 
Unfinished what he might achieve! 
Yet better sure 
Is this, than wandering up and 
down, 
An old man in a country town, 
Infirm and poor. 
For now he haunts his native 
land 
As an immortal youth; his hand 
Guides every plough; 
He sits beside each ingle-nook, 
His voice is in each rushing brook, 
Each rustling bough, 


450 


ULTIMA THULE 





His presence haunts this room to- 
night, 
A form of mingled mist and light 
From that far coast. 
Welcome beneath this roof of 
mine! 
Welcome! 
thine, 
Dear guest and ghost! 


this vacant chair is 


HELEN OF TYRE 


WHAT phantom is this that ap- 
pears 
Through the purple mists of the 
years, 
Itself but a mist like these? 
A woman of cloud and of fire; 
It is she; it is Helen of Tyre, 
The town in the midst of the 
seas. 


O Tyre! in thy crowded streets 

The phantom appears and retreats, 
And the Israelites that sell 

Thy lilies and lions of brass, 

Look up as they see her pass, 
And murmur ‘ Jezebel!’ 


Tben another phantom is seen 
At her side, in a gray gabardine, 
With beard that floats to his 
waist ; 
It is Simon Magus, the Seer; 
He speaks, and she pauses to hear 
The words he utters in haste. 


He says: ‘ From this evil fame, 
From this life of sorrow and 
shame, 
I will lift thee and make thee 
mine ; 
Thou hast been Queen Candace, 
And Helen of Troy, and shalt be 
The Intelligence Divine!’ 


Oh, sweet as the breath of morn, 
To the fallen and forlorn 

Are whispered words of praise; 
For the famished heart believes 


The falsehood that tempts and 
deceives, 
And the promise that betrays. 


So she follows from land to land 
The wizard’s beckoning hand, 
As a leaf is blown by the gust, 
Till she vanishes into night. 
O reader, stoop down and write 
With thy finger in the dust. 


O town in the midst of the seas, 
With thy rafts of cedar trees, 
Thy merchandise and thy 
ships, 
Thou, too, art become as naught, 
A phantom, a shadow, a thought, 
A name upon men’s lips. 


ELEGIAC 


DARK is the morning with mist; 
in the narrow mouth of the 
harbor 

Motionless lies the sea, under its 
curtain of cloud; 

Dreamily glimmer the sails of 
ships on the distant horizon, 

Like to the towers of a town, 
built on the verge of the sea. 


Slowly and stately and still, they 
sail forth into the ocean; 
With them sail my thoughts over 
the limitless deep, 
Farther and farther away, borne: 
on by unsatisfied longings, 
Unto Hesperian isles, unto Au- 
sonian shores. 


Now they have vanished away, 
have disappeared in the 
ocean ; 

Sunk are the towers of the town 
into the depths of the sea! 

All have vanished but those that, 
moored in the neighboring 
roadstead, 

Sailless at anchor ride, looming _ 
so large in the mist. 


THE SIFTING OF PETER 


451 





Vanished, too, are the thoughts, 
the dim, unsatisfied longings; 
Sunk are the turrets of cloud 
into the ocean of dreams ; 
While in a haven of rest my heart 
is riding at anchor, 
Held by the chains of love, held 
by the anchors of trust! 


OLD ST. DAVID’S AT RAD- 


NOR 


WHAT an image of peace and rest 
Is this little church among its 
graves! 
is so quiet; 
breast, 
The wounded spirit, the heart 
oppressed, 
Here may find the repose it 
craves. 


All the troubled 


jee, how the ivy climbs and ex- 
pands 
Over this humble hermitage, 
And seems to caress with its little 
hands 
The rough, gray stones, as a child 
that stands 
Caressing the wrinkled cheeks 
of age! 


You cross the threshold; and dim 
and small 
Is the space that serves for the 
Shepherd’s Fold; 
The narrow aisle, the bare, white 
wall, 
The pews, and the pulpit quaint 
and tall, 
Whisper and say: ‘ Alas! we are 
old.’ 


Herbert’s chapel at Bemerton 
Hardly more spacious is than 
this ; 
But poet and pastor, blent in one, 
Clothed with a splendor, as ot the 
sun, 
That lowly and holy edifice. 


It is not the wall of stone without 
That makes the building small 
or great, 
But the soul’s light shining round 
about, 
And the faith that overcometh 
doubt, 
And the love that stronger is 
than hate. 


Were I a pilgrim in search of 
peace, 

Were I a pastor of Holy Church, 
More than a Bishop’s diocese 
Should I prize this place of rest 

and release 

From further longing and further 

search. 


Here would I stay, and let the 
world 
With its distant thunder roar 
and roll; 
Storms do not rend the sail that is 
furled; 
Nor like a dead leaf, tossed and 
_ whirled 
In an eddy of wind, is the 
anchored soul. 


FOLK-SONGS 
THE SIFTING OF PETER 


IN St. Luke’s Gospel we are told 
How Peter in the days of old 
Was sifted; 
And now, though ages intervene, 
Sin is the same, while time and 
scene 
Are shifted. 


Satan desires us, great and small, 

As wheat to sift us, and we all 
Are tempted ; 

Not one, however rich or great, 

Is by his station or estate 
Exempted. 


No house so safely guarded is 
But he, by some device of his, 


452 





Can enter; 
No heart hath armor so complete 
But he can pierce with arrows fleet 
Its centre. 


For all at last the cock will crow, 
Who hear the warning voice, but 
go 
Unheeding, 
Till thrice and more they have 
denied 
The Man of Sorrows, crucified 
And bleeding. 


One look of that pale, suffering | 


face 
Will make us feel the deep dis- 
grace 
Of weakness ; 
We shall be sifted till the strength 
Of self-conceit be changed at 
length 
To meekness. 
Wounds of the soul, though 
healed, will ache; 
The reddening sears remain, and 
make 
Confession ; 
Lost innocence returns no more; 
We are not what we were before 
Transgression. 


But noble souls, through dust and 
heat, 
Rise from disaster and defeat 
The stronger ; 
And conscious still of the divine 
Within them, lie on earth supine 
No longer. 


MAIDEN AND WEATHER- 


Cock 
MAIDEN. 
O WEATHERCOCK on the village 
spire, 
With your golden feathers all on 
fire, 


ULTIMA 


THULE 


—-x« 


Tell me, what can you see from 
your perch 

Above there over the tower of the 
church? 


WEATHERCOCK. 


I can see the roofs and the streets 
below, 

And the people moving to and 
fro, 

And beyond, without either roof 
or street, 

The great salt sea, and the fisher- 
men’s fleet. 


I can see a ship come sailing in 

Beyond the headlands and harbor 
of Lynn, 

And a young man standing on the 
deck, 

With a silken kerchief round his 
neck, 


Now he is pressing it to his lips, 

And now he is kissing hs finger. 
tips, 

And now he is lifting and waving 
his hand, 

And blowing the kisses toward the 


land. 
MAIDEN. 

Ah, that is the ship from over the 
sea, 

That is bringing my lover back to 
me, 

Bringing my lover so fond and 
true, 


Who does not change with the 
wind like you. 


WEATHERCOCK. 


If I change with all the winds that 
blow, 

It is only because they made me 
SO, 

And people would think it won- 
drous strange, 

If I, a Weathercock, should not 
change. 


MY CATHEDRAL 


t 


O pretty Maiden, so fine and fair, 

With your dreamy eyes and your 
golden hair, 

When you and your lover meet to- 
day 

You will thank me for looking 
some other way. 


THE WINDMILL 


BEHOLD! a giant am T! 
Aloft here in my tower, 
With my granite jaws I devour 
The maize, and the wheat, and the 
rye, 
And grind them into flour. 


I look down over the farms; 
Tn the fields of grain I see 
The harvest that is to be, 

And I fling to the air my arms, 
For I know it is all for me. 


T hear the sound of flails 
Far off, from the threshing- 
floors 
In barns, with their open 
doors, 
And the wind, the windin my sails, 
Louder and louder roars. 


I stand here in my place, 
With my foot on the rock be- 
low, 
And whichever way it may 
blow, 
I meet it face to face 
As a brave man meets his foe. 


And while we wrestle and strive, 
My master, the miller, stands 
And feeds me with his hands ; 

For he knows who makes him 

thrive, 
Who makes him lord of lands. 


On Sundays I take my rest; 
Church-going bells begin 
Their low, melodious din; 

J cross my arms on my breast, 
And all is peace within. 





453 


THE TIDE RISES, THE TIDE 
FALLS 


THE tide rises, the tide falls, 
The twilight darkens, the curlew 
calls; 
Along the sea-sands damp and 
brown 
The traveller hastens toward the 
town, 
And the tide rises, the tide falls. 


Darkness settles on roofs and 
walls, 

But the sea, the sea in the dark- 
ness calls; 

The little waves, with their soft, 
white hands, 

Efface the footprints in the sands, 

And the tide rises, the tide falls. 


The morning breaks; the steeds 
in their stalls 
Stamp and neigh, as the hostler 
calls ; 
The day returns, but nevermore 
Returns the traveller to the shore, 
And the tide rises, the tide falls. 


SONNETS 
MY CATHEDRAL 


LIKE two cathedral towers these 
stately pines 
Uplift their fretted summits 
tipped with cones; 
The arch beneath them is not 
built with stones, 
Not Art but Nature traced these 
lovely lines, 
And carved this graceful ara- 
besque of vines ; 
No organ but the wind here 
sighs and moans, 
No sepulchre conceals a mar: 
tyr’s bones, 
No marble bishop on his tomb 
reclines. 
Enter! the pavement, carpeted 
with leaves, / 


454 ULTIMA 


Gives back a softened echo to 
thy tread! 


Listen! the choir is singing; all }. 


the birds, 
In leafy galleries beneath 
eaves, 
Are singing! listen, ere the 
sound be fled, 
And learn there may be worship 
without words. 


the 


THE BURIAL OF THE POET 


RICHARD HENRY DANA 


In the old churchyard of his na- 
tive town, 
And in the ancestral tomb be- 
side the wall, 
We laid him in the sleep that 
comes to all, 
And left him to his rest and his 
renown. 
The snow was falling, as if Hea- 
ven dropped down 
White flowers of Paradise to 
strew his pall ;— 
The dead around him seemed to 
wake, and ¢all 
His name, as worthy of so white 
a crown. 
And now the moon is shining on 
the scene, 
And the broad sheet of snow is 
written o’er 
With shadows cruciform of leaf- 
less trees, 
As once the winding-sheet of Sala- 
din 
With chapters of the Koran; 
but, ah! more 
Mysterious and triumphant signs 
are these. 


NIGHT 


INTO the darkness and the hush 
of night 
Slowly the landscape sinks, and 
fades away, 


THULE 


And with it fade the phantoms of 
the day, 

The ghosts of men and things, 
that haunt the light. 

The crowd, the clamor, the pur. 

suit, the flight, 

The unprofitable splendor and 
display, 

The agitations, and the cares 
that prey 

Upon our hearts, all vanish out 


of sight. 
The better life begins; the world 
no more 
Molests us; all its records we 
erase 


From the dull commonplace 

book of our lives, 
That like a palimpsest is written 

o’er 

With trivial incidents of time 
and place, 

And lo! the ideal, hidden be 
neath, revives. 


L’ENVOI 
THE POET AND HIS SONGS 


As the birds come in the Spring, 
We know not from where ; 

As the stars come at evening 
From depths of the air; 


As the rain comes from the cloud, 
And the brook from the ground; 
As suddenly, low or loud, 
Out of silence a sound; 


As the grape comes to the vine, 
The fruit to the tree ; 

As the wind comes to the pine, 
And the tide to the sea; 


As come the white sails of ships 
Over the ocean’s verge ; 

As comes the smile to the lips, 
The foam to the surge; 


THE POET’S CALENDAR 


455 





So come to the Poet his songs, 
All hitherward blown 


From the misty realm, that be- 


longs 
To the vast Unknown. 


His, and not his, are the lays 
He sings; and their fame 


Is his, and not his; and the praise 
And the pride of a name. 


For voices pursue him by day, 
And haunt him by night, 
And he listens, and needs must 
obey, 
When the Angel says, ‘Write!’ 


LNGl RE EEA R BOR 


BECALMED 


BECALMED upon the sea of 
Thought, 

Still unattained the land it sought, 

My mind, with loosely-hanging 
sails, 

Lies waiting the auspicious gales. 


On either side, behind, before, 
The ocean stretches like a floor, — 
A level floor of amethyst, 
Crowned by a golden dome of mist. 


Blow, breath of inspiration, blow! 
Shake and uplift this golden glow! 
And fill the canvas of the mind 
With wafts of thy celestial wind. 


Blow, breath of song! until I feel 
The straining sail, the lifting keel, 
The life of the awakening sea, 

Its motion and its mystery! 


THE POET’S CALENDAR 


JANUARY 


JANUS am J; oldest of potentates ; 
Forward I look, and backward, 
and below 
I count, as god of avenues and 
gates, 
The years that through my por- 
tals come and go. 
I block the roads, and drift the 
fields with snow; 


I chase the wild-fowl from the 
frozen fen; 
My frosts congeal the rivers in 
their flow, 
My fires light up the hearths and 
hearts of men. 


FEBRUARY 


I am lustration; and the sea is 
mine! 
I wash the sands and headlands 
with my tide; 
My brow is crowned with branches 
of the pine; 
Before my chariot-wheels the 
fishes glide. 
By me all things unclean are puri- 
fied, 
By me the souls of men washed 
white again ; 
E’en the unlovely tombs of those 
who died 
Without a dirge, I cleanse from 
every stain. 


MARCH 


I Martius am! Once first, and 
now the third! 
To lead the Year was my ap- 
pointed place ; 
A mortal dispossessed me by a 
word, 
And set there Janus with the 
double face, 
Hence I make war on all the 
human race; 


456 


IN THE HARBOR 





I shake the cities with my hurri- 
canes; 
I flood the rivers and their banks 
efface, 
And drown the farms and ham- 
lets with my rains. 


APRIL 


I open wide the portals of the 
Spring 
To welcome the procession of 
the flowers, 
With their gay banners, and the 
birds that sing 
Their song of songs from their 
aerial towers. 
I soften with my sunshine and my 
showers 
heart of earth; 
thoughts of love I glide 
Into the hearts of men; and with 
the Hours 
Upon the Bull with wreathéd 
horns I ride. 


The with 


MAY 


Hark! The sea-faring wild-fowl 
loud proclaim 
My coming, and the swarming 
of the bees. 
These are my heralds, and be- 
hold! my name 
Is written in blossoms on the 
hawthorn-trees. 
T tell the mariner when to sail the 
SeAS ; 
I waft o’er all the land from far 
away 
The breath and bloom of the Hes- 
perides, 
‘My birthplace. 
am May. 


Iam Maia. I 


JUNE 


Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, 
and mine 
The Month of Marriages! 
pleasant sights 


All 


And scents, the fragrance of the 
blossoming vine, 
The foliage of the valleys and 
the heights. 
Mine are the longest days, the 
loveliest nights ; ‘ 
The mower’s scythe makes mu. 
sic to my €ar ; 
I am the mother of all dear de 
lights ; 
Iam the fairest daughter of the 
year, 


JULY 


My emblem is the Lion, and I 
breathe - 
The breath of Libyan deserts 
o’er the land; 
My sickle as a sabre I unsheathe, 
And bent before me the pale 
harvests stand. 
The lakes and rivers shrink at my 
command, 
And there is thirst and fever in 
the air; 
The sky is changed to brass, the 
earth to sand; 
I am the Emperor whose name 


I bear. 
AUGUST 
The Emperor Octavian, called the 
August, 
I being his favorite, bestowed 
his name 
Upon me, and I hold it still in 
trust, 
In memory of him and of his 
fame. 
I am the Virgin, and my vestal 
flame 


Burns less intensely than the 
Lion’s rage; 
Sheaves are my only garlands, and 
I claim 
The golden Harvests as my hers 
tage. 


THE FOUR LAKES OF MADISON 


SEPTEMBER 


I bear the Scales, where hang in 
equipoise 
The night and day; and when 
unto my lips 
I put my trumpet, with its stress 
and noise 
Fly the white clouds like tat- 
tered sails of ships; 
The tree-tops lash the air with 
sounding whips; 
Southward the clamorous sea- 
fowl wing their flight; 
The hedges are all red with haws 
and hips, 
The Hunter’s Moon reigns em- 
press of the night. 


OCTOBER 


My ornaments are fruits; my gar- 
ments leaves, 
Woven like cloth of gold, and 
crimson dyed; 
I do not boast the harvesting of 
sheaves, 
O’er orchards and o’er vineyards 
I preside. 
Though on the frigid Scorpion I 
ride, 
The dreamy air is full, and over- 
flows 
With tender memories of the sum- 
mer-tide, 
And mingled voices of the doves 
and crows. 


NOVEMBER 


The Centaur, Sagittarius, am I, 
Born of [xion’s and the cloud’s 
embrace ; 
With sounding hoofs across the 
earth I fly, 
A steed Thessalian with a hu- 
man face. 
Sharp winds the arrows are with 
which I chase 
The leaves, half dead already 
with affright ; 


457 


I shroud myself in gloom; and te 
the race 

Of mortals bring nor comfort nor 
delight. 


DECEMBER 


Riding upon the Goat, with snow- 
white hair, 
I come, the last of all. 
crown of mine 
Is of the holly: in my hand I bear 
Thy thyrsus, tipped with fra 
grant cones of pine. 
I celebrate the birth of the Divine, 
And the return of the Saturnian 
reign; 
My songs are carols sung at every 
shrine, 
Proclaiming ‘Peace on earth, 
good will to men.’ 


This 


AUTUMN WITHIN 


IT is autumn; not without, 
But within me is the cold. 
Youth and spring are all about; 
It is I that have grown old. 


Birds are darting through the 
air, 
Singing, building without rest; 
Life is stirring everywhere, 
Save within my lonely breast. 


There is silence: the dead leaves 
Fall and rustle and are still; 

Beats no flail upon the sheaves, 
Comes no murmur from the milL 


THE FOUR LAKES OF MADI- 
SON 


Four limpid lakes, — four Naiadeg 
Or sylvan deities are these, 


In flowing robes of azure 
dressed ; 
Four lovely handmaids, that up. 
hold 


458 





Their shining mirrors, rimmed 
with gold, 


To the fair city in the West. 


By day the coursers of the sun 
Drink of these waters as they run 
Their swift diurnal round on 
high; 
By night the constellations glow 
Far down the hollow deeps below, 
And glimmer in another sky. 


Fair lakes, serene and full of light, 
Fair town, arrayed in robes ot 
white, 

How visionary ye appear! 
Alllike a floating landscape seems 
Incloud-land or the land of dreams, 

Bathed in a golden atmosphere! 


VICTOR AND VANQUISHED 


As one who long hath fled with 
panting breath 
Before his foe, bleeding and near 
to fall, 
I turn and set my back against 
the wall, 
And look thee in the face, trium- 
phant Death. 
TI call for aid, and no one answer- 
eth; 
I am alone with thee, who con- 
querest all; 
Yet me thy threatening form 
doth not appall, 
For thou art but a phantom and 
a wraith. 
Wounded and weak, sword broken 
at the hilt, 
With armor shattered, and with- 
out a shield, 
I stand unmoved; do with me 
what thou wilt; 
[I can resist no more, but will not 
yield. 
This is no tournament where 
cowards tilt ; 
The vanquished here is victor of 
the field. 


IN THE HARBOR 


MOONLIGHT 


AS a pale phantom with a lamp 
Ascends some ruin’s haunted 
stair, 
So glides the moon along the damp 
Mysterious chambers of the air. 


Now hidden in cloud, and now re- 
vealed, 
As if this phantom, full of pain, 
Were by the crumbling walls con. 
cealed, 
And at the windows seen again. 


Until at last, serene and proud 
Tn all the splendor of her light, 
She walks the terraces of cloud, 
Supreme as Empress of the 
Night. 


I Jook, but recognize no more 
Objects familiar to my view; 

The very pathway to my door 
Is an enchanted avenue. 


All things are changed. One mass 
of shade, 
The elm-trees drop their cur- 
tains down; 
By palace, park, and colonnade 
I walk as in a foreign town. 


The very ground beneath my feet 
Is clothed with a diviner air; 
While marble paves the silent 


street 
And glimmers in the empty 
square. 
Illusion! Underneath there lies 


The common life of every day ; 
Only the spirit glorifies 
With its own tints the sober gray. 


In vain we look, in vain uplift 
Our eyes to heaven, if we are 
blind; 
We see but what we have the giff 
. Of seeing; what we bring w® 
find. 


° 


THE CHILDREN’S CRUSADE 


459 





THF CHILDREN’S CRUSADE 
[A FRAGMENT] 


I 


Wuat is this I read in history, 
Full of marvel, full of mystery, 
Difficult to understand ? 

Ts it fiction, is it truth ? 

Children in the flower of youth, 
Heart in heart, and hand in hand, 
Jgnorant of what helps or harms, 
Without armor, without arms, 
Journeying to the Holy Land! 


Who shall answer or divine? 10 
Never since the world was made 
Such a wonderful crusade 

Started forth for Palestine. 

Never while the world shall last 
Will iv reproduce the past; 

Never will it see again 

Such an army, such a band, 

Over mountain, over main, 
Journeying to the Holy Land. 19 


Tike a shower of blossoms blown 
From the parent trees were they ; 
Like a flock of birds that fly 
Through the unfrequented sky, 
Holding nothing as their own, 
Passed they into lands unknown, 
Passed to suffer and to die. 


O the simple, child-like trust! 

O the faith that could believe 

What the harnessed, iron-mailed 

Knights of Christendom had 
failed, 30 

By their prowess, to achieve, 

They, the children, could and 
must! 


Little thought the Hermit, preach- 
ing 

Holy Wars to knight and baron, 

That the words dropped in his 
teaching, 

His entreaty, his beseeching, 

Would by children’s hands be 
gleaned, 


And the staff on which he leaned 
Blossom like the rod of Aaron. 


As asummer wind upheaves = 40 
The innumerable leaves 

In the bosom of a wood, — 

Not as separate leaves, but massed 
All together by the blast, — 

So for evil or for good 

His resistless breath upheaved 
All at once the many-leaved, — 
Many-thoughted multitude. 


In the tumult of the air 

Rock the boughs with all the 
nests 50 

Cradled on their tossing crests ; 

By the fervor of his prayer 

Troubled hearts were everywhere 

Rocked and tossed in human 
breasts. 


For a century, at least, 

His prophetic voice had ceased; 
But the air was heated still 

By his lurid words and will, 

As from fires in far-off woods, 

In the autumn of the year, 60 
An unwonted fever broods 

In the sultry atmosphere. 


II 


In Cologne the bells were ringing, 

In Cologne the nuns were singing 

Hymns and canticles divine ; 

Loud the monks sang in their 
stalls, 

And the thronging streets were 
loud 

With the voices of the crowd ;— 

Underneath the city walls 

Silent flowed the river Rhine. 70 

From the gates, that summer 
day, 

Clad in robes of hodden gray, 

With the red cross on the breast, 

Azure-eyed and golden-haired, 

Forth the young crusaders fared; 

While above the band devoted 

Consecrated banners floated, 


460 IN THE 


Fluttered many a flag and 
streamer, 
And the cross o’er all the rest! 
Singing lowly, meekly, slowly, 
‘Give us, give us back the holy 
Sepulchre of the Redeemer!’ 
On the vast procession pressed, 
Youths and maidens. ... 


80 


III 


Ah! what master hand shall paint 

How they journeyed on their way, 

How the days grew long and 
dreary, 

How their little feet grew weary, 

How their little hearts grew faint! 


Ever swifter day by day go 
Flowed the homeward river; ever 
More and more its whitening cur- 
rent 
Broke and scattered into spray, 
Till the calmly-flowing river 
Changed into a mountain torrent, 
Rushing from its glacier green 
Down through chasm and black 
ravine. 


Like a phoenix in its nest, 

Burned the red sun in the West, 

Sinking in an ashen cloud; 100 

In the East, above the crest 

Of the sea-like mountain chain, 

Like a phoenix from its shroud, 

Came the red sun back again. 

Now around them, white with 
snow, 

Closed the mountain peaks. 
low, 

Headlong from the precipice 

Down into the dark abyss, 

Plunged the cataract, white 
foam; 

And it said, or seemed to say: 110 

‘Oh return, while yet you may, 

Foolish children, to your home, 

There the Holy City is!’ 


Be- 


with 


But the dauntless leader said: 


‘Faint not, though your bleeding 
feet 


HARBOR 


et 


O’er these slippery paths of sleet | 
Move but painfully and slowly; 
Other feet than yours have bled; 
Other tears than yours been shed. 
Courage! lose not heart or hope; 
On the mountains’ southern slope 
Lies Jerusalem the Holy!’ 122 
As a white rose in its pride, 
By the wind in summer-tide 
Tossed and loosened from the 
branch, 
Showers its petals o’er the ground, 
From the distant mountain’s side, 
Scattering all its snows around, 
With mysterious, muffled sound, 
Loosened, fell the avalanche. 130 
Voices, echoes far and near, 
Roar of winds and waters blend- 
ing, 
Mists uprising, clouds impending, 
Filled them with a sense of fear, 
Formless, nameless, never end: 
ing. 


e e e e e e ° e 


SUNDOWN 


THE summer sun is sinking low; 
Only the tree-tops redden and 
glow: 
Only the weathercock on the spire 
Of the neighboring church is a 
flame of fire; 
Allis in shadow below. 


O beautiful, awful summer day, 
What hast thou given, what taken 
away ? 
Life and death, and love and hate, 
Homes made happy or desolate, 
Hearts made sad or gay! 


On the road of life one mile-stone 
more! 

In the book of life one leaf turned 
over! 

Like a red seal is the setting 
sun 

On the good and the evil men have 
done, — 

Naught can to-day restore! 


AUF WIEDERSEHEN 


461 





CHIMES 


SWEET chimes! that in the lone- 
liness of night 
Salute the passing hour, and in 
the dark 
And silent chambers of the 
household mark 
The movements of the myriad 
orbs of light! 
Through my closed eyelids, by the 
inner sight, 
I see the constellations in the 
are 
Of their great circles moving on, 
and hark! 
I almost hear them singing in 
their flight. 


Better than sleep it is to lie 
awake, 
O’er-canopied by the vast starry 
dome 


Of the immeasurable sky ; to feel 
The slumbering world sink under 
us, and make 
Hardly an eddy,—a mere rush 
of foam 
On the great sea beneath a sink- 
ing keel. 


FOUR BY THE CLOCK 


‘Nahant, September 8, 1880, four 
o’clock in the morning.’ 


Four by the clock! and yet not 
day; 

8ut the great world rolls and 
wheels away, 

With its cities on land, and its 
ships at sea, 

Into the dawn that is to be! 


Only the lamp in the anchored 
bark 

Sends its glimmer across the dark, 

And the heavy breathing of the 
sea 

Is the only sound that comes to 
me. 


AUF WIEDERSEHEN 
IN MEMORY OF J. T. F. 
UNTIL we meet again! That is 
the meaning 
Of the familiar words, that men re. 
peat 
At parting in the street. 
Ah yes, till then! but when death 
intervening 
Rends us asunder, with what cease- 
less pain 
We wait for the Again! 


The friends who leave us do not 
feel the sorrow 
Of parting, as we feel it, who must 
stay 
Lamenting day by d*y, 
And knowing, when we woke upon 
the morrow, 


We shall not find in if accus- 
tomed place 
The one beloved face. 
It were a double grief, i \he de- 


parted, 
Being released from eartu, should 
still retain 
A sense of earthly pain; 
It were a double grief, if the true- 
hearted, 
Who loved us here, should on the 
farther shore 
Remember us no more. 


Believing, in the midst of our af- 
flictions, 
That death is a beginning, not an 
end, 
We cry to them, and send 
Farewells, that better might be 
called predictions, 
Being fore-shadowings of the fu- 
ture, thrown 
Into the vast Unknown. 


Faith overleaps the ccv.ines of 
our reason, 

And if by faith, as in oi ¢imea 
was said, 


450 IN THE HARBOR 





Women received their dead Our partings are, nor shall we 
Raised up to life, then only for a wait in vain 
season Until we meet again! 


ELEGIAC VERSE 


I 


PERADVENTURE Of old, some bard in Tonian Islands, 
Walking alone by the sea, hearing the wash of the waves, 

Learned the secret from them of the beautiful verse elegiac, 
Breathing into his song motion and sound of the sea. 


For as the wave of the sea, upheaving in long undulations, 
Plunges loud on the sands, pauses, and turns, and retreats, 

So the Hexameter, rising and singing, with cadence sonorous, 
Falls; and in refiuent rhythm back the Pentameter flows. 


II 
Not in his youth alone, but in age, may the heart of the poet 
Bloom into song, as the gorse blossoms in autumn and spring. 
III 
Not in tenderness wanting, yet rough are the rhymes of our poet; 
Though it be Jacob’s voice, Esau’s, alas! are the hands. 
IV 


Let us be grateful to writers for what is left in the inkstand ; 
When to leave off is an art only attained by the few. 


Vv 


How can the Three be One? you ask me; I answer by asking, 
Hail and snow and rain, are they not three, and yet one? 


VI 
By the mirage uplifted, the land floats vague in the ether, 
Ships and the shadows of ships hang in the motionless air; 


So by the art of the poet our common life is uplifted, 
So, transfigured, the world floats in a luminous haze. 


VAL 


Like a French poem is Life; being only perfect in structure 
When with the masculine rhymes mingled the feminine are. 


VIII 


Down from the mountain descends the brooklet, rejoicing in free 
dom; 
Little it dreams of the mill hid in the valley helow; 
Glad with the joy of existence, the child goes singing and laughing, 
Tittle dreaming what toils lie in the future concealed. 


MEMORIES 





463 


Ix 


As the ink from our pen, so flow our thoughts and our feelings 


When we begin to write, however sluggish before. 


‘ 


Like the Kingdom of Heaven, the Fountain of Youth is within us; 
If we seek it elsewhere, old shall we grow in the search, 


xI 


If you would hit the mark, you must aim a little above it; 
Every arrow that flies feels the attraction of earth. 


XII 


Wisely the Hebrews admit no Present tense in their language ; 
While we are speaking the word, it is already the Past. 


XIII 


In the twilight of age all things seem strange and phantasmal, 
As between daylight and dark ghost-like the landscape appears. 


XIV 


Great is the art of beginning, but greater the art is of ending; ° 
Many a poem is marred by a superfluous verse. 


THE CITY AND THE SEA 


THE panting City cried to the Sea, 
*T am faint with heat,— Oh breathe 
on me!’ 


And the Sea said, ‘ Lo, I breathe! 
but my breath 

To some will be life, to others 
death!’ 


As to Prometheus, bringing ease 
In pain, come the Oceanides, 


So to the City, hot with the flame 
Of the pitiless sun, the east wind 
came. 


It came from the heaving breast 
of the deep, 

Silent as dreams are, and sudden 
as sleep. 

Life-giving, death-giving, which 
will it be; 

O breath of the merciful, merciless 
Sea? 


MEMORIES 


Orr I remember those whom I 
have known 
In other days, to whom my heart 
was led 
As by a magnet, and who are 
not dead, 
But absent, and their memories 
overgrown 
With other thoughts and troubles 
of my own, 
AS graves with grasses are, and 
at their head 
The stone with moss and lichens 
so O’er-Spread, 
Nothing is legible but the name 
alone. 
And is it so with them? After 
long years, 
Do they remember me in the 
same way, 
And is the memory pleasant aa) 
to me? 
I fear to ask; yet wherefore are 
my fears? 


464 





Pleasures, like flowers, may 
wither and decay, 

And yet the root perennial may 
be. » 


HERMES TRISMEGISTUS 


As Seleucus narrates, Hermes de- 
scribes the principles that rank’ as 
wholes in two myriads of books; or, as 
we are informed by Manetho, he per- 
fectly unfolded these principles in 
three myriads six thousand five hun- 
dred and twenty-five volumes. ... 

... Our ancestors dedicated the in- 
ventions of their wisdom to this deity, 
inscribing all their own writings with 
the name of Hermes. — IAMBLICUS. 


STILL through Egypt’s desert 
places 
Flows the lordly Nile, 
From its banks.the great stone 
faces 
Gaze with patient smile. 

Still the pyramids imperious 
Pierce the cloudless skies, 
And the Sphinx stares with mys- 

terious, 
Solemn, stony eyes. 


But where are the old Egyptian 
Demi-gods and kings? 10 

Nothing left but an inscription 
Graven on stones and rings. 

Where are Helios and Hephestus, 
Gods of eldest eld? 

Where is Hermes Trismegistus, 
Who their secrets held? 


Where are now the many hun- 
dred 
Thousand books he wrote? 
By the Thaumaturgists plundered, 
Lost in lands remote ; 20 
In oblivion sunk forever, 
As when o’er the land 
Blows a storm-wind, in the river 
Sinks the scattered sand. 


Something unsubstantial, ghostly, 
Seems this Theurgist, 


IN THE HARBOR 


ee 


In deep meditation mostly 
Wrapped, as in a mist. 

Vague, phantasmal, and unreal 
To our thought he seems, 30 

Walking in a world ideal, 
In a land of dreams. 


Was he one, or many, merging 
Name and fame in one, 
Like a stream, to which, conver- 
ging, 
Many streamlets run? 
Till, with gathered power proceed- 
ing, . 
Ampler sweep it takes, 
Downward the sweet waters lead- 
ing 
From unnumbered lakes. 4¢ 
By the Nile I see him wandering, 
Pausing now and then, 
On the mystic union pondering 
Between gods and men; 
Half believing, wholly feeling, 
With supreme delight, 
How the gods, themselves conceal. 
ing, 
Lift men to their height. 


Or in Thebes, the hundred-gated, 
In the thoroughfare 5¢ 
Breathing, as if consecrated, 
A diviner air; 
And amid discordant noises, 
In the jostling throng, 
Hearing far, celestial voices 
Of Olympian song. 


Who shall call his dreams falla. 
cious ? 
Who has searched or sought 
All the unexplored and spacious 
Universe of thought ? 6a 
Who, in his own skill confiding, 
Shall with rule and line 
Mark the border-land dividing 
Human and divine? 


Trismegistus! three times great 
est! 
How thy name sublime 


MY BOOKS 


465 





Has descended to this latest 
Progeny of time! 

Happy they whose written pages 
Perish with their lives, 70 

If amid the crumbling ages 
Still their name survives ! 


Thine, O priest of Egypt, lately 
Found I in the vast, 

Weed-encumbered, sombre, state- 

ly, 

Grave-yard of the Past; 

And a presence moved before me 
On that gloomy shore, 

As a waft of wind, that o’er me 
Breathed, and was no more. 80 


TO THE’ AVON 


FLOW on, sweet river! like his 
verse 

Who lies beneath this sculptured 
hearse ; 

Nor wait beside the churchyard 
wall 

For him who cannot hear thy call. 


Thy playmate once; I see him now 

A boy with sunshine on his brow, 

And hear in Stratford’s quiet 
street 

The patter of his little feet. 


I see him by thy shallow edge 


Wading knee-deep amid the 
sedge; 

And lost in thought, as if thy 
stream 


Were the swift river of a dream. 


He wonders whitherward it flows ; 

And fain would follow where it 
goes, 

To the wide world, that shall ere- 
long 

Be filled with his melodious song. 


Flow on, fair stream! That dream 
is o’er; 
He stands upon another shore ; 


A vaster river near him flows, 
And still he follows where it 
goes. 


PRESIDENT GARFIELD 


*E venni dal martirio a questa pace.’ 
Paradiso, XV. 148. 


THESE words the poet heard in 
Paradise, 
Uttered by one who, bravely dy- 
ing here, 
In the true faith was living in 
that sphere 
Where the celestial cross of sac- 
rifice 
Spread its protecting arms athwart 
the skies ; 
And set thereon, like jewels crys- 
tal clear, 
The souls magnanimous, that 
knew not fear, 
Flashed their effulgence on his 
dazzled eyes, 
Ah me! how dark the discipline of 
pain, 
Were not the suffering followed 
by the sense 
Of infinite rest and infinite re- 
lease! 
This is our consolation ; and again 
A great soul cries to us in our 
suspense, 
‘I came from martyrdom unto 
this peace!’ 


MY BOOKS 


SADLY as some old medieval 
knight 
Gazed at the arms he could no 
longer wield, 
The sword two-handed and the 
shining shield 
Suspended in the hall, and full in 
sight, 
While secret longings for the lost 
delight 


466 IN GEE 


HARBOR 





Of tourney or adventure in the 
field 
Came over him, and tears but 
half concealed 
Trembled and fell upon his 
beard of white, 
So I behold these books upon their 
shelf, 
My ornaments and arms of other 
days; 
Not wholly useless, though no 
longer used, 
For they remind me of my other 
self, 
Younger and stronger, and the 
pleasant ways 
In which I walked, now clouded 
and confused. 


MAD RIVER 
IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS 


TRAVELLER. 


Wuy dost thou wildly rush and 
roar, 
Mad River, O Mad River ? 
Wilt thou not pause and cease to 
pour 
Thy hurrying, headlong waters 
o’er 
This rocky shelf forever ? 


What secret trouble stirs thy 
breast ? 
Why all this fret and flurry ? 
Dost thou not know that what is 
best 
In this too restless world is rest 
From over-work and worry ? 


THE RIVER. 


What wouldst thouin these moun- 
tains seek, 
O stranger from the city ? 
Is it perhaps some foolish freak 
Of thine, to put the words I speak 
Into a plaintive ditty? 


TRAVELLER. 
Yes; I would learn of thee thy 
song, 
With all its flowing numbers, 


‘And in a voice as fresh and strong 
_As thine is, sing it all day long, 


And hear it in my slumbers. 


THE RIVER. 
A brooklet nameless and unknown 
Was [ at first, resembling 
A little child, that all alone 
Comes venturing down the stairs 
of stone, 
Irresolute and trembling. 


Later, by wayward fancies led, 
For the wide world I panted ; 
Out of the forest, dark and dread, 
Across the open fields I fled, 
Like one pursued and haunted. 


I tossed my arms, I sang aloud, 
My voice exultant blending 
With thunder from the passing 

cloud, 
The wind, the forest bent and 
bowed, 
The rush of rain descending. 


I heard the distant ocean ¢eall, 
Imploring and entreating ; 
Drawn onward, o’er this rocky 

wall 
I plunged, and the loud water: 
fall 
Made answer to the greeting. 


And now, beset with many ills, 
A toilsome life I follow; 

Compelled to carry from the hills 

These logs to the impatient mills 
Below there in the hollow. 


Yet something ever cheers and 
charms 
The rudeness of my labors; 
Daily I water with these arms 
The cattle of a hundred farms, 
And have the birds for neigh 
bors. 


LOSS AND ‘GAIN 


465 





Men call me Mad, and well they 
may, 
When, full of rage and trouble, 
I burst my banks of sand and clay, 
And sweep their wooden bridge 
away, 
Like withered reeds or stubble. 


Now go and write thy little rhyme, 
As of thine own creating. 
Thou seest the day is past its 
prime; 
I can no longer waste my time; 
The mills are tired of waiting. 


POSSIBILITIES 


WHERE are the Poets, unto whom 
belong 
The Olympian heights ; whose 
singing shafts were sent 
Straight to the mark, and not 
from bows half bent, 
But with the utmost tension of 
the thong ? 
Where are the stately argosies of 
song, 
Whose rushing keels made mu- 
sic as they went 
Sailing in search of some new 
continent, 
With all sail set, and steady 
winds and strong? 
Perhaps there lives some dreamy 
boy, untaught 
In schools, some graduate of the 
field or street, 
Who shall become a master of 
the art, 
An admiral sailing the high seas 
of thought, 
Fearless at first, and steering 
with his fleet 
For lands not yet laid down in 
any chart. 


DECORATION DAY 


BLEEP, comrades, sleep and rest 
On this Field of the Grounded 
Arms, 


Where foes no more molest, 
Nor sentry’s shot alarms! 


Ye have slept on the ground be 
fore, 
And started to your feet 
At the cannon’s sudden roar, 
Or the drum’s redoubling beat. 


But in this camp of Death 

No sound your slumber breaks; 
Here is no fevered breath, 

No wound that bleeds and aches, 


All is repose and peace, 
Untrampled lies the sod; 

The shouts of battle cease, 
It is the truce of God! 


Rest, comrades, rest and sleep! 
The thoughts of men shall be 
As sentinels to keep 
Your rest from danger free. 


Your silent tents of green 
We deck with fragrant flowers; 
Yours has the suffering been, 
The memory shall be ours. 


A FRAGMENT 


AWAKE! arise! the hour is late! 
Angels are knocking at thy door! 
They are in haste and cannot 
wait, 
And once départed come no 
more. 


Awake! arise! the athlete’s arm 
Loses its strength by too much 
rest; 
The fallow land, the untilled farm 
Produces only weeds at best. 


LOSS AND GAIN 


WHEN I compare 
What I have lost with what 1 
have gained, 


468 IN THE HARBOR 





What I have missed with what} For bells are the voice of the 


attained, 
Little room do I find for pride. 


I am aware 
How many days have been idly 
spent ; 
How like an arrow the good intent 
Has fallen short or been turned 
aside. 


But who shall dare 
To measure loss and gain in this 
wise ? 
Defeat may be victory in disguise; 
The lowest ebb is the turn of the 
tide. 


INSCRIPTION ON THE 
SHANKLIN FOUNTAIN 


© TRAVELLER, stay thy weary 
feet; 
Drink of this fountain, pure and 
sweet; 
It flows for rich and poor the 
same. 
Then gothy way,remembering still 
The wayside well beneath the hill, 
The cup of water in his name. 


THE BELLS OF SAN BLAS 


WHAT say the Bells of San Blas 
To the ships that southward pass 
From the harbor of Mazatlan? 
To them it is nothing more 
Than the sound of surf on the 
shore, — 
Nothing more to master or 
man. 


But to me, a dreamer of dreams, 
To whom what is and what seems 
Are often one and the same, — 
The Bells of San Blas to me 
Have a strange, wild melody, 
And are something more than 
a hame. 


chureh; 
They have tones that touch and 
search 
The hearts of young and old; 
One sound to all, yet each 
Lends a meaning to their speech, 
And the meaning is manifold. 


They are a voice of the Past, 
Of an age that is fading fast, 

Of a power austere and grand 
When the flag of Spain unfurled 
Its folds o’er this western world, 

And the Priest was lord of the 

land. 


The chapel that once fooked down 
On the little seaport town 
Has crumbled into the dust; 
And on oaken beams below 
The bells swing to and fro, 
And are green with mould and 
rust. 


‘Is, then, the old faith dead,’ 
They say, ‘and in its stead 
Is some new faith prociaimed, 
That we are forced to remain 
Naked to sun and rain, 
Unsheltered and ashamed ? 


‘Once in our tower aloof 
We rang over wall and roof 
Our warnings and our coms 
plaints ; 
And round about us there 
The white doves filled the air, 
Like the white souls of the 
saints. 


‘The saints! Ah, have they growg 
Forgetful of their own? 

Are they asleep, or dead, 
That open to the sky 
Their ruined Missions lie, 

No longer tenanted ? 


‘Oh, bring us back once more 
The vanished days of yore, 


—— = 


FRAGMENTS 


469 





When the world with faith was 
filled; 
Bring back the fervid zeal, 
The hearts of fire and steel, 
The hands that believe and 
build. 


*Then from our tower again 
We will send over land and main 
Our voices of command, 
Like exiled kings who return 
To their thrones, and the people 
learn 
That the Priestis lord of the 
land !? 


O Bells of San Blas, in vain 
Ye call back the Past again! 
The Past is deaf to your 
prayer ; 
Out of the shadows of night 
The world rolls into light; 
It is daybreak everywhere. 


FRAGMENTS 


October 22, 1838. 


NEGLECTED record of a mind 
neglected, 

Unto what ‘lets and stops’ art 
thou subjected ! 

The day with all its toils and occu- 
pations, 

The night with its reflections and 
sensations, 

The future, and the present, and 
the past, — 

All I remember, feel, and hope at 
last, 

All shapes of joy and sorrow, as 
they pass, — 

Find but a dusty image in this 
glass. 


August 18, 1847. 
O faithful, indefatigable tides, 
That evermore upon God’s errands 
g0,— 


Now seaward bearing tidings of 
the land, — 

Now landward bearing tidings of 
the sea, — 

And filling every frith and estuary, 

Each arm of the great sea, each 
little creek, 

Each thread and filament of wa- 
ter-courses, 

Full with your ministration of de- 
light! 

Under the rafters of this wooden 
bridge : 

I see you come and go; sometimes 
in haste 

To reach your journey’s end, which 
being done 

With feet unrested ye return again 

And recommence the never-ending 
task ; 

Patient, whatever burdens ye may 
bear, 

And fretted only by the impeding 
rocks. 


December 18, 1847. 


Soft through the silent air descend 
the feathery snow-flakes ; 

White are the distant hills, white 
are the neighboring fields; 

Only the marshes are brown, and 
the river rolling among them 

Weareth the leaden hue seen in the 
eyes of the blind. 


August 4, 1856. 


A lovely morning, without the 
glare of the sun, the sea in great 
commotion, chafing and foaming. 


So from the bosom of darkness 
our days come roaring and 
gleaming, 

Chafe and break into foam, sink 
into darkness again. 

But on the shores of Time each 
leaves some trace of its pas- 
sage, 

Though the succeeding wave 
washes it out from the sand. 


470° 





CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 


CERT SIS eae NEVES GE aye 


INTROITUS 


The ANGEL bearing the PROPHET 
HABAKKUK through the air. 


PROPHET. 


WHy dost thou bear me aloft, 

O Angel of God, on thy pinions 

O’er realms and dominions? 

Softly I float as a cloud 

In air, for thy right hand upholds 
me, 

Thy garment enfolds me! 


ANGEL. 


Lo! as I passed on my way 

In the harvest-field I beheld thee, 
When no man compelled thee, 
Bearing with thine own hands 10 
This food to the famishing reapers, 
A flock without keepers ! 


The fragrant sheaves of the wheat 

Made the air above them sweet; 

Sweeter and more divine 

Was the scent of the scattered 
grain, 

That the reaper’s hand let fall 

To be gathered again 

By the hand of the gleaner! 

Sweetest, divinest of all, 20 

Was the humble deed of thine, 

And the meekness of thy de- 
meanor! 


PROPHET. 
Angel of Light, 
I cannot gainsay thee, 
I can but obey thee! 


ANGEL. 


Beautiful was it in the Lord’s 
sight, 

To behold his Prophet 

Feeding those that toil, 

The tillers of the soil. 


But why should the reapers eat of 
it 30 

And not the Prophet of Zion 

In the den of the lion? 

The Prophet should feed the 
Prophet! 

Therefore I thee have uplifted, 

And bear thee aloft by the hair 

Of thy head, like a cloud that is 
drifted 

Through the vast unknown of the 
air! 


Five days hath the Prophet been 
lying 

In Babylon, in the den 

Of the lions, death-defying, 40 

Defying hunger and thirst; 

But the worst 

Is the mockery of men! 

Alas! how full of fear 

Is the fate of Prophet and Seer! 

Forevermore, forevermore, 

It shall be as it hath been heretvo- 
fore; 

The age in which they live 

Will not forgive 

The splendor of the OT Tan ne 
light, 

That makes their foreheads pried 

Nor the sublime 

Fore-running of their time ! 


PROPHET. 


Oh tell me, for thou knowest, 
Wherefore and by what grace, 
Have I, who am least and lowest, 
Been chosen to this place, 

To this exalted part? 


ANGEL. 


Because thou art 

The Struggler ; and from thy vauts 
Thy humble and patient life 

Hath been a strife 

And battle for the Truth; 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


471 





Nor hast thou paused nor halted, 
Nor ever in thy pride 

Turned from the poor aside, 

But with deed and word and pen 
Hast served thy fellow-men; 
Therefore art thou exalted! 


PROPHET. 
By thine arrow’s light 70 
Thou goest onward through he 
night, 


And by the clear 
Sheen of thy glittering spear! 
When will our journey end? 


ANGEL. 


Lo, it is ended! 

Yon silver gleam 

Is the Euphrates’ stream. 
Let us descend 

Into the city splendid, 


Into the City of Gold! 80 


PROPHET. 


Behold! 

As if the stars had fallen from 
their places 

Into the firmament below, 

The streets, the gardens, and the 
vacant spaces 

With light are all aglow; 

And hark! 

AS we draw near, 

What sound is it I hear 

Ascending through the dark ? 


ANGEL. 

The tumultuous noise of the na- 

tions, go 
Their rejoicings and lamentations, 
The pleadings of their prayer, 
The groans of their despair, 
The cry of their imprecations. 
Their wrath, their love, their hate! 


PROPHET. 


Surely the world doth wait 
The coming of its Redeemer! 


ANGEL. 
Awake from thy sleep, O dreamer! 
The hour is near, though late; 90 


Awake! write the vision sublime, 

The vision, that is for a time, 

Though it tarry, wait; it is nigh; 

In the end it will speak and not 
lie. 


PART ONE 
THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 
THE FIRST PASSOVER 
I 


VOX CLAMANTIS 


JOHN THE BAPTIST. 


REPENT! repent! repent! 

For the kingdom of God is at hand, 

And all the land 

Full of the knowledge of the Lord 
shall be 

As the waters cover the sea, 

And encircle the continent! 


Repent! repent! repent! 

For lo, the hour appointed, 

The hour so long foretold 

By the Prophets of old, 

Of the coming of the Anointed, 

The Messiah, the Paraclete, 

The Desire of the Nations, is nigh! 

He shall not strive nor ery, 

Nor his voice be heard in the 
Street; 

Nor the bruised reed shall He 
break, 

Nor quench the smoking flax ; 

And many of them that sleep 

In the dust of earth shall awake, 

On that great and terribie day, 20 

And the wicked shall wail and 
weep, 

And be blown like a smoke away, 

And be melted away like wax. 

Repent! repent! repent! 

O Priest, and Pharisee, 

Who hath warned you to flee 

From the wrath that is to be? 

From the coming anguish and ire? 

The axe is laid at the root 


19 


472 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





Of the trees, and every tree 30 

That bringeth not forth good fruit 

Is hewn down and cast into’ the 
fire! 


Ye Scribes, why come ye hither? 

In the hour that is uncertain, 

In the day of anguish and trou- 
ble, 

He that stretcheth the heavens as 
a curtain 

And spreadeth them out as a 
tent, 

Shall blow upon you, and ye shall 
wither, 

And the whirlwind shall take you 
away as stubble! 

Repent! repent! repent! 40 


PRIEST. 


Who art thou, O man of prayer! 
In raiment of camel’s hair, 
Begirt with leathern thong, 
That here in the wilderness, 
With a cry as of one in distress, 
Preachest unto this throng? 
Art thou the Christ? 


JOHN. 


Priest of Jerusalem, 

In meekness and humbleness, 

I deny not, I confess 50 
I am not the Christ! 


PRIEST. 


What shall we say unto them 
That sent us here? Reveal 
Thy name, and naught conceal! 
Art thou Elias ? 


JOHN. 
No! 


PRIEST. 


Art thou that Prophet, then, 

Of lamentation and woe, 

Who, as a symbol and sign 

Of impending wrath divine 

Upon unbelieving men, 60 
Shattered the vessel of clay 

{In the Valley of Slaughter? 


JOHN. 
Nay. 
I am not he thou namest! 


PRIEST. 


Who art thou, and what is the word 
That here thou proclaimest? 


JOHN. 


I am the voice of one 

Crying in the wilderness alone: 
Prepare ye the way of the Lord: 
Make his paths straight 
In the land that is desolate! 70 


PRIEST. 


If thou be not the Christ, 

Nor yet Elias, nor he 

That, in sign of the things to be, 
Shattered the vessel of clay 

In the Valley of Slaughter, 
Then declare unto us, and say 
By what authority now 
Baptizeth thou? 


JOHN. 


T indeed baptize you with water 
Unto repentance; but He, 8a 
That cometh after me, 

Is mightier than I and higher; 
The latchet of whose shoes 

Tam not worthy to unloose ; 

He shall baptize you with fire, 
And with the Holy Ghost! 

Whose fan is in his hand; 

He will purge to the uttermost 
His floor, and garner his wheat, 89 
But will burn the chaff in the brand 
And fire of unquenchable heat! 
Repent! repent! repent! 


II 
MOUNT QUARANTANIA 


I 


LUCIFER. 
Not in the lightning’s flash, nor in 
the thunder, 
Not in the tempest, nor the cloudy 
storm, 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


Will I array my form; 
But part invisible these boughs 
asunder, 
And move and murmur,as the wind 
upheaves 
And whispers in the leaves. 


Not as a terror and a desolation, 
Not in my natural shape, inspiring 
fear 100 
And dread, will I appear; 
But in soft tones of sweetness and 
persuasion, 
A sound as of the fall of mountain 
streams, 
Or voices heard in dreams. 


He sitteth there in silence, worn 
and wasted 

With famine, and uplifts his hol- 
low eyes 

To the unpitying skies: . 

For forty days and nights he hath 
not tasted 

Of food or drink, his parted lips 


are pale, 
Surely his strength must 
fail. 110 


‘Wherefore dost thou in penitential 
fasting 
Waste and consume the beauty of 
thy youth ? 
Ah, if thou be in truth 
The Son of the Unnamed, the 
Everlasting, 
Command these stones beneath 
thy feet to be 
Changed into bread for thee! 


CHRISTUS. 


*T is written: Man shall not live 
by bread alone, 

But by each word that from God’s 
mouth proceedeth! 


II 


LUCIFER. 


Too weak, alas! too weak is the 
temptation 


473 


For one whose soul to nobler 
things aspires 120 
Than sensual desires! 
Ah, could IT, by some sudden aber- 
ration, 
Lead and delude to suicidal death 
This Christ of Nazareth! 


Unto the holy Temple on Moriah, 
With its resplendent domes, and 
manifold 
Bright pinnacles of gold, 
Where they await thy coming, O 
Messiah! 
Lo, I have brought thee! 
glory here 
Be manifest and clear. 


Let thy 
130 


Reveal thyself by royal act and 
gesture 
Descending with the bright tri- 
umphant host 
Of all the highermost 
Archangels, and about thee as a 
vesture 
The shining clouds, and all thy 
splendors show 
Unto the world below! 


Cast thyself down, it is the hour 
appointed ; 
And God hath given his angels 
charge and care 
To keep thee and upbear 
Upon their hands his only Son, the 
Anointed, 140 
Lest he should dash his foot 
against a stone 
And die, and be unknown. 


CHRISTUS, 


*T is written: Thou shalt not tempt 
the Lord thy God! 


IIT 


LUCIFER. 
I cannot thus delude him to perdi. 
tion ! 
But one temptation still remains 
untried, 


474 CHRISTUS: 


A MYSTERY 





The trial of his pride, 
The thirst of power, the fever of 
ambition ! 
Surely by these a humble peasant’s 
son 
At last may be undone! 


Above the yawning chasms and 
deep abysses, 150 

Across the headlong torrents, I 
have brought 


Thy footsteps, swift as 
thought; 
And from the highest of these pre- 
cipices, 


The Kingdoms of the world thine 
eyes behold, 
Like a great map unrolled. 


From far-off Lebanon, with cedars 
crested, 
To where the waters of the As- 
phalt Lake 
On its white pebbles break, 
And the vast desert, silent, sand- 
invested, 
These kingdoms all are mine, and 
thine shall be, 160 
Tf thou wilt worship me! 


CHRISTUS. 


Get thee behind me, Satan! thou 
shalt worship 

The Lord thy God ; Him only shalt 
thou serve ! 


ANGELS MINISTRANT. 


The sun goes down; the evening 
shadows lengthen, 
The fever and the struggle of the 
day 
Abate and pass away; 
Thine Angels Ministrant, we come 
to strengthen 
And comfort thee, and crown thee 
with the palm, 
The silence and the calm. 


III 
THE MARRIAGE IN CANA 


THE MUSICIANS. 


Rise up, my love, my fair one, 

Rise up, and come away, 

For lo! the winter is past, 

The rain is over and gone, 

The flowers appear on the earth, 

The time of the singing of birds is 
come, 

And the voice of the turtle is heard 
in our land. 


170 


THE BRIDEGROOM. 


Sweetly the minstrels sing the 
Song of Songs ! 
My heart runs forward with it, 
and I say: 
Oh set me as a seal upon thine 
- heart, 
And set me as a seal upon thine 
arm; 180 
For love is strong as life, and 
' strong as death, 
And cruel as the grave is jealousy! 


THE MUSICIANS. 


I sleep, but my heart awaketh; 

°T is the voice of my beloved 

Who knocketh, saying: Open to 
me, 

My sister, my love, my dove, 

For my head is filled with dew, 

My locks with the drops of the 
night! 


THE BRIDE. 
Ah yes, I sleep, and yet my heart 
awaketh. 


It is the voice of my beloved who 
knocks. 199 


THE BRIDEGROOM. 

O beautiful as Rebecca at the 
fountain, 

O beautiful as Ruth among the 
sheaves ! 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


475 





O fairest among women! O unde- 
filed! 

Thou art all fair, my love, there’s 
no spot in thee! 


THE MUSICIANS. 


My beloved is white and ruddy, 
The chiefest among ten thousand; 
His locks are black as a raven, 
His eyes are the eyes of doves, 

Of doves by the rivers of water, 
His lips are like unto lilies, 200 
Dropping sweet-smelling myrrh. 


ARCHITRICLINUS. 


Who is that youth with the dark 
azure eyes, 

Andhair, in color like unto the wine, 

Parted upon his forehead, and be- 
hind 

Falling in flowing locks? 


PARANYMPHUS. 


The Nazarene 
Who preacheth to the poor in field 
and village 
The coming of God’s Kingdom. 


ARCHITRICLINUS. 
How serene 
His aspectis! manly yet womanly. 
PARANYMPHUS. 


Most beautiful among’the sons of 
men! 
Oft known to weep, but never 


known to laugh. 210 
ARCHITRICLINUS. 
And tell me, she with eyes of olive 
tint, 


And skin as fair as wheat, and pale 
brown hair, 
The woman at his side? 


PARANYMPHUS. 
His mother, Mary. 


ARCHITRICLINUS, 


And the tall figure standing close 
behind them, 


Clad all in white, with face and 
beard like ashes, 

As if he were Elias, the White 
Witness, 

Come from his cave on Carmel te 
foretell 

The end of all things ? 


PARANYMPHUS. 


That is Manahem 
The Essenian, he who dwells 
among the palms 219 

Near the Dead Sea. 


ARCHITRICLINUS. 


He who foretold to Herod 
He should one day be King? 


PARANYMPHUS. 
The same. 


ARCHITRICLINUS. 


Then why 
Doth he come here to sadden with 
his presence 
Our marriage feast, belonging to a 
sect 
Haters of women, and that taste 
not wine? 


THE MUSICIANS, 


My undefiled is but one, 

The only one of her mother, 

The choice of her that bare her; 

The daughters saw her and blessed 
her; 

The queens and the concubines 
praised her ; 

Saying, Lo! who is this 230 

That looketh forth as the morn- 
ing? 


MANAHEM, aside. 


The Ruler of the Feast is gazing 
at me, 

As if he asked, why is that old 
man here 

Among the revellers? And thou, 
the Anointed! 

Why art thou here? Iseeasina 
vision 


476 





A figure clothed in purple, crowned 
with thorns ; 

I see acress uplifted in the dark- 
ness, 

And hear a cry of agony, that shall 
echo 

Forever and forever through the 
world! 


ARCHITRICLINUS. 


Give us more wine. These gob- 
lets are all empty. 240 


MARY to CHRISTUS. 
They have no wine! 


CHRISTUS. 


O woman, what have I 
To do with thee? Mine hour is 
not yet come. 


MARY to the servants. 


Whatever he shall say to you, that 
do. 
CHRISTUS. 


Fill up these pots with water. 


THE MUSICIANS. 


Come, my beloved, 

Let us go forth into the field, 

Let us lodge in the villages; 

Let us get up early to the vine- 
yards, 

Let us see if the vine flourish, 249 

Whether the tender grape appear, 

And the pomegranates bud forth. 


CHRISTUS. 


. Draw out now 
And bear unto the Ruler of the 
Feast. 


MANAHEM, aside. 


O thou, brought up among the Es- 
senians, 

Nurtured in abstinence, taste not 
the wine! 

It isthe poison of dragons from 
the vineyards 

Of Sodom, and the taste of death is 
in it! 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 


ARCHITRICLINUS to the BRIDE: 
GROOM. 

All men set forth good wine at the 
beginning, 

And when men have well drunk, 
that which is worse ; 

But thou hast kept the good wine 
until now. 


MANAHEM, aside. 


The things that have been and 
shall be no more, 260 

The things that are, and that 
hereafter shall be, 

The things that might have been, 
and yet were not, 

The fading twilight of great joys 
departed, 

The daybreak of great truths as 

- yet unrisen, 

The intuition and the expectation 

Of something,-which, when come, 
is not the same, 

But only like its forecast in men’s 
dreams, 

The longing, the delay, and the 
delight, 

Sweeter for the delay; 
hope, love, death, 

And disappointment which is also 
death, 270 

All these make up the sum of hu- 
man life; 

A dream within a dream, a wind 
at night 

Howling across the desert in de- 
spair, 

Seeking for something lost it can- 
not find. 

Fate or foreseeing, or whatever 
name 

Men call it, matters not; what is 
to be 

Hath been fore-written in the 
thought divine 

From the beginning. 
hide from it, 

But it will find him out; nor run 
from it, 

But it o’ertaketh him! 
hath said it. 


youth, 


None can 


The Lord 


280 — 





THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 47? 
THE BRIDEGROOM (to the BRIDE, NATHANAEL, 
on the balcony. Can any good come out of Naza- 
When Abraham went with Sarah reth? 


into Egypt, 

The land was all illumined with 
her beauty ; 

But thou dost make the very night 
itself 

Brighter than day! 
glad procession, 

Crowding the threshold of the sky 
above us, 

The stars come forth to meet thee 
with their lamps ; 

And the soft winds, the ambassa- 
dors of flowers, 

From neighboring gardens and 
from fields unseen, 

Come laden with odors unto thee, 
my Queen! 


Behold, in 


THE MUSICIANS, 


Awake, O north-wind, 290 

And come, thou wind of the South. 

Blow, blow upon my garden, 

That the spices thereof may flow 
out. 


IV 
IN THE CORNFIELDS 


PHILIP. 


Onward through leagues of sun- 
illumined corn, 

As if through parted seas, the 
pathway runs, 

And crowned with sunshine as the 
Prince of Peace 

Walks the beloved Master, lead. 
ing us, 

As Moses led our fathers in old 
times 

Out of the land of bondage! 
have found 

Him of whom Moses and the Pro- 
phets wrote, 300 

sesus of Nazareth, the Son of Jo- 
seph. 


We 


Can this be the Messiah? 


PHILIP. 
Come and see. 


NATHANAEL. 


The summer sun grows hot: Iam 
anhungered. 

How cheerily the Sabbath-break- 
ing quail 

Pipes in the corn, and bids us to 
his Feast 

Of Wheat Sheaves! How the 
bearded, ripening ears 

Toss in the roofless temple of the 
air; 

As if the unseen hand of some 
High-Priest 

Waved them before Mount Tabor 
as an altar! 310 

It were no harm, if we should 
pluck and eat. 


PHILIP. 

How wonderful it is to walk 
abroad 

With the Good Master! Since the 
miracle 


He wrought at Cana, at the mar- 
riage feast, 

His fame hath goneabroad through 
all the land, ; 

And when we come to Nazareth, 
thou shalt see 

How his own people will receive 
their Prophet, 

And hail him as Messiah! 

; turns 
And looks at thee. 


See, he 


CHRISTUS. 


Behold an Israelite 
In whom there is no guile, 


NATHANAEL. 
Whence knowest thou me? 


478 


CHRISTUS. 


Before that Philip called thee, 
when thou wast 321 
Under the fig-tree, I beheld thee. 


NATHANAEL. 
Rabbi! 
Thou art the Son of God, thou art 
the King 
Of Israel! 


CHRISTUS. 


Because I said I saw thee 

Under the fig-tree, before Philip 
called thee, 

Believest thou? Thou shalt see 
greater things. 

Hereafter thou shalt see the hea- 
vens unclosed, 

The angels of God ascending and 
descending 

Upon the Son of Man! 


PHARISEES, passing. 
Hail, Rabbi! 


CHRISTUS. 
Hail! 

PHARISEES. 
Behold how thy disciples do a 
thing 330 


Which is not lawful on the Sab- 
bath-day, 
And thou forbiddest them not! 


CHRISTUS. 


Have ye not read 

What David did when he anhun- 
gered was, 

And all they that were with him? 
How he entered 

Into the house of God,and ate the 
shew-bread, 

Which was not lawful, saving for 
the priests ? 

Have ye not read, how on the Sab- 
bath-days 

The priests profane the Sabbath 
in the Temple, 

And yet are blameless? But I say 
to you, 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





One in this place is greater than 
the Temple! 340 

And had ye known the meaning 
of the words, 

I will have mercy and not sacri- 
fice, 

The guiltless ye would not con- 
demn. The Sabbath 

Was made for man, and not man 
for the Sabbath. 

Passes on with the disciples. 


PHARISEES., 


This is, alas! some poor demo- 
niac 

Wandering about the fields, and 
uttering 

His unintelligible blasphemies 

Among the common people, who 
receive 

As prophecies the words they com- 
prehend not! 

Deluded folk! The incomprehen- 


sible 350 
Alone excites their wonder. There 
is none 


So visionary, or so void of sense, 
But he will find a crowd to follow 
him! 


vV 


NAZARETH 


CHRISTUS, reading in the Syna- 
gogue. 


The Spirit of the Lord God is upon 
me. 

He hath anointed me to preach 
good tidings 

Unto the poor; to heal the broken- 
hearted ; 

To comfort those that mourn, and 
to throw open 

The prison doors of captives, and 
proclaim 

The Year Acceptable of the Lord, 
our God! 


He closes the book and sits down 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


479 





A PHARISEE. 
Whois this youth? He hath taken 
the Teacher's seat! 360 
Will he instruct the Elders? 


A PRIEST. 
Fifty years 
Have I been Priest here in the 
Synagogue, 
And never have I seen so young 
aman 
Sit in the Teacher’s seat! 


CHRISTUS. 
Behold, to-day 
This scripture is fulfilled. One is 
appointed 


And hath been sent to them that 
mourn in Zion, 

To give them beauty for ashes, and 
the oil 

Of joy for mourning! 
build again 

The old waste-places; and again 


They shall 


raise up 

The former desolations, and re- 
pair 370 

The cities that are wasted! Asa 
bridegroom 

Decketh himself with ornaments ; 
as a bride 

Adorneth herself with jewels, so 
the Lord 

Hath clothed me with a robe of 
righteousness ! 


A PRIEST. 


He spake the Prophet’s words; 
but with an air 

As if himself had been foreshad- 
owed in them! 


CHRISTUS. 

For Zion’s sake I will not hold my 
peace, 

And for Jerusalem’s sake I will 
not rest 

Until its righteousness be as a 
brightness, 

And its salvation as a lamp that 
burneth! 380 


Thou shalt be called no longer the 
Forsaken, 

Nor any more thy land the Deso- 
late. 

The Lord hath sworn, by his right 
hand hath sworn, 

And by his arm of strength: I will 
no more 

Give to thine enemies thy corn as 
meat ; 

The sons of strangers shall not 
drink thy wine. 

Go through, go through the gates! 
Prepare a way 

Unto the people! Gather out the 
stones! 

Lift up a standard for the people! 


A PRIEST. 


Ah} 
These are seditious words! 


CHRISTUS. 


And they shall call them 
The holy people; the redeemed of 
God! 391 


‘And thou, Jerusalem, shalt be 


called Sought out, 
A city not forsaken! 


A PHARISEE. 


Is not this 

The carpenter Joseph’s son? Is 
not his mother 

Called Mary? and his brethren and 
his sisters, 

Are they not with us? Doth he 
make himself 

To be a Prophet? 


CHRISTUS. 


No man is a Prophet 
In his own country, and among his 
kin. 
In his own house no Prophet is 
accepted. 
TI say to you, in the iand of Israel 
Were many widows in Elijal’s 
day, 401 
When for three years and more 
the heavens were shut, 


480 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





And a great famine was through- 
out the land ; 

But unto no one was Elijah sent 

Save to Sarepta, to a city of Sidon, 

And to a woman there that was a 
widow. 

And many lepers were there in the 
land 

Of Israel, in the time of Eliseus 

The Prophet, and yet none of them 
was cleansed, 409 

Save Naaman the Syrian! 


A PRIEST. 


Say no more! 
Thou comest here into our Syna- 
gogue 
And speakest to the Elders and 
the Priests, 
As if the very mantle of Elijah 
Had fallen upon thee! Art thou 
not ashamed ? 


A PHARISEE., 


We want no Prophets here! 
him be driven 

From Synagogue and city! 
him go 

And prophesy to the Samaritans ! 


Let 


AN ELDER. 


The world is changed. We Elders 
are as nothing! 

We are but yesterdays, that have 
no part 

Or portion in to-day! Dry leaves 
that rustle, 420 

That make a little sound, and then 
are dust! 


A PHARISEE. 


A carpenter’s apprentice! a me. 
chaniec, 

Whom we have seen at work here 
in the town 

Day after day; a stripling without 
learning, 

Shall he pretend to unfold the 
Word of God 

To men grown old in study of the 
Law? 

CHRISTUS is thrust out. 


Let 


VI 


THE SEA OF GALILEE 


PETER and ANDREW mending 
their nets. 


PETER. 


Never was such a marvellous 
draught of fishes 

Heard of in Galilee! The market- 
places 

Both of Bethsaida and Capernaum 

Are full of them! Yet we had 
toiled all night 43° 

And taken nothing, when the Mas- 
ter said: 

Launch out into the deep, and cast 
your nets; 

And doing this, we caught such 
multitudes, 

Our nets like spiders’ webs were 
snapped asunder, 

And with the draught we filled two 
ships so full 

That they began ‘to sink. Then I 
knelt down 

Amazed, and said: O Lord, depart 
from me, 

Tama sinful man. 
answer: 

Simon, fear not; henceforth thou 
shalt catch men! 

What was the meaning of those 
words ? 


And he made 


ANDREW. 


I know not. 
But here is Philip, come er 
Nazareth, 
He hath been with the Master? 
Tell us, Philip, 
What tidings dost thou bring? 


PHILIP. 


Most wonderful! 
AS we drew near to Nain, out of 
the gate 
Upon a bier was carried the dead 
body 
Of a young man, his mother’s only 
son, 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


481 





And she a widow, who with lamen- 
tation 

Bewailed her loss, and the much 
people with her; 

And when the Master saw her he 


was filled 
With pity: and he said to her: 
Weep not! 450 


And came and touched the bier, 
and they that bare it 

Stood still; and then he said: 
Young man, arise! 

And he that had been dead sat up, 
and soon 

Began to speak; and he delivered 
him 

Unto his mother. 
a fear 

On all the people, and they glorified 

The Lord, and said, rejoicing: A 
great Prophet 

Is risen up among us! and the 
Lord 

Hath visited his people! 


And there came 


PETER. 
A great Prophet? 
Ay, greater than a Prophet: 
greater even 460 
Than John the Baptist! 
PHILIP. 
Yet the Nazarenes 
Rejected him. 
PETER. 
The Nazarenes are dogs! 


As natural brute beasts, they: 


growl at things 

They do not understand; and they 
shall perish, 

Utterly perish in their own cor- 
ruption. 

The Nazarenes are dogs! 


PHILIP. 


They drave him forth 

Out of their Synagogue, out of 
their city, 

And would have cast him down a 
precipice, 


But, passing through the midst of 
them, he vanished 
Out of their hands. 


PETER. 


Wells are they without water, 
Clouds carried with a tempest, 


unto whom 471 
The mist of darkness is reserved 
forever ! 
PHILIP. 


Behold he cometh. There is one 
man with him 


I am amazed to see! 


ANDREW. 
What man is that ? 


PHILIP, 


Judas Iscariot; he that cometh 
last, 

Girt with a leathern apron. 
one knoweth 

Hishistory; but the rumor of him is 

He had an unclean spirit in his 
youth. 

It hath not left him yet. 


No 


CHRISTUS, passing. 


Come unto me, 
All ye that labor and are heavy 


laden, 480 
And I will give you rest! Come 
unto me, 


And take my yoke upon you and 
learn of me, 

For Iam meek, and I am lowly in 
heart, 

And ye shall all find rest unto your 
souls! 


PHILIP. 


Oh, there is something in that 
voice that reaches 

The innermost recesses of my 
spirit ! 

T feel that it might say unto the 
blind : 

Receive your sight! and straight 
way they would see! 


482 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





I feel that it might say unto the 


dead, 
Arise! and they would hear it and 
obey! 490 


Behold, he beckons to us! 


CHRISTUS, to PETER and AN- 


DREW. 
Follow me! 
PETER. 
Master, I will leave all and follow 
thee. 
= 
VII 


THE DEMONIAC OF GADARA 


A GADARENE. 


He hath escaped, hath plucked his 
chains asunder, 

And broken his fetters; always 
night and day 

Is in the mountains here, and in 
the tombs, 

Crying aloud, and cutting himself 
with stones, 

Exceeding fierce, so that no man 
can tame him! 


THE DEMONIAC from above, un- 
seen. 
O <Aschmedai! oO Aschmedai, 
have pity! 


A GADARENE. 


Listen! Itis his voice! 
the people 
Just landing from the lake! 


Go warn 


THE DEMONIAC, 


O Aschmedai! 
Thou angel of the bottomless pit, 


have pity! 501 
It was enough to hurl King Solo- 
mon, 


On whom be peace! two hundred 
leagues away 

Into the country, and to make him 
scullion 





In the kitchen of the King of 
Maschkemen! 

Why dost thou hurl me_ here 
among these rocks, 

And cut me with these stones ? 


A GADARENE. 


He raves and mutters 
He knows not what. 


THE DEMONIAC, appearing from 
a tomb among the rocks. 


The wild cock Tarnegal 

Singeth to me and bids me to the 
banquet, 

Where all the Jews shall come; 
for they have slain 510 

Behemoth the great ox, who daily 
cropped 

A thousand hills for food, and at a 
draught 

Drank up the river Jordan, and 
have slain 

The huge Leviathan, and stretched 
his skin 

Upon the high walls of Jerusalem, 

And made them shine from one end 
of the world 

Unto the other; 
Barjuchne, 

Whose outspread wings eclipse 
the sun, and make 

Midnight at noon o’er all the con- 


and the fowl 


tinents! 
And we shall drink the wine of 
Paradise 520 


From Adam’s cellars. 


A GADARENE. 
O thou unclean spirit! 


THE DEMONIAC, hurling down a 
stone. 


This is the wonderful Barjuchne’s 


egg, 

That fell out of her nest, and broke 
to pieces 

And swept away three hundred 
cedar-trees, 

And threescore villages !— Rabbi 
Eliezer, 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


483 





How thou didst sin there in that 
seaport town 

When thou hadst carried safe thy 
chest of silver 

Over the seven rivers for her sake! 

I too have sinned beyond the reach 
of pardon, 

Ye hills and mountains, pray for 
merey on me! 530 

Ye stars and planets, pray for 
mercy on me! 

Ye sun and moon, oh pray for 
mercy on me! 

CHRISTUS and his disciples pass. 


A GADARENE. 


There is a man here of Decapolis, 

Who hath an unclean spirit; so 
that none 

Can pass this way. 
among the tombs 

Up there upon the cliffs, and hurls 
down stones 

On those who pass beneath. 


He lives 


CHRISTUS. 
Come out of him, 
Thou unclean spirit! 


THE DEMONIAC, 


What have I to do 
With thee, thou Son of God? Do 
not torment us. 


CHRISTUS. 
What is thy name? 


THE DEMONIAC. 


Legion; for we are many. 

Cain, the first murderer; and the 
King Belshazzar, 541 

And Evil Merodach of Babylon, 

And Admatha, the death- cloud, 
prince of Persia; 

And Aschmedai, the angel of the 
pit, 

Ard many other devils. 
Legion. 

Send us not forth beyond Decap- 
olis ; 

Command us not to go into the 
deep! 


We are 


There is a herd of swine here in 
the pastures, 
Let us go into them. 


CHRISTUS, 


Come out of him, 
Thou unclean spirit ! 


A GADARENE, 


See, how stupefied, 

How motionless he stands! He 
cries no more ; 551 

He seems bewildered and in 
silence stares 

As one who, walking in his sleep, 
awakes 

And knows not where he is, and 
looks about him, 

And at his nakedness, and is 
ashamed. 


THE DEMONIAC. 


Why am I here alone among the 
tombs ? 

What have they done to me, that 
Iam naked? 

Ah, woe is me! 


CHRISTUS. 


Go home unto thy friends 

And tell them how great things 
the Lord hath done 

For thee, and how He had com- 

passion on thee! 560 


A SWINEHERD, running. 


The herds! the herds! O inost 
unlucky day! 

They were all feeding quiet in the 
sun, 

When suddenly they started, and 
grew savage 

As the wild boars of Tabor, and 
together 

Rushed down a precipice into the 
sea! 

They are all drowned! 


PETER. 


Thus righteously are punished 
The apostate Jews, that eat the 
flesh of swine, 


484 


CHRISTUS: .A MYSTERY 


And broth of such abominable 
things ! 


GREEKS OF GADARA. 


We sacrifice a sow unto Demeter 

At the beginning of harvest, and 
another 570 

To Dionysus at the vintage-time. 

Therefore we prize our herds of 
swine, and count them 

Not as unclean, but as things con- 


secrate 

To the immortal gods. O great 
magician, 

Depart out of our coasts; let us 
alone, 


We are afraid of thee. 


PETER. 


Let us depart; 
For they that sanctify and purify 
Themselves in gardens, eating 
flesh of swine, 
And the abomination, and the 


mouse, 

Shall be consumed together, saith 

the Lord! 580 
VIII 


TALITHA CUMI 


JAIRUS at the feet of CHRISTUS. 

O Master! I entreat thee! I im- 
plore thee! 

My daughter lieth at the point of 
death ; 

I pray thee come and lay thy 
hands upon her, 

And she shall live ! 


CHRISTUS. 
Who was it touched my garments ? 


SIMON PETER. 


CHRISTUS. 
Some one hath touched my gare 
ments; I perceive 
That virtue is gone out of me. 


A WOMAN. 
O Master! 
Forgive me! For I said within 
myself, 
If I so much as touch his gare 
ment’s hem, 59¢ 


I shall be whole. 


CHRISTUS. 


Be of good comfort, daughter! 
Thy faith hath made thee whole. 
Depart in peace. 


A MESSENGER from the house. 


Why troublest thou the Master? 
Hearest thou not 

The fliute-players, and the voices 
of the women 

Singing their lamentation? Sheis 


dead! 

THE MINSTRELS AND MOURN- 

ERS. 

We have girded ourselves with 
sackcloth ! 

We have covered our heads with 
ashes! 

For our young men die, and our 
maidens 


Swoon in the streets of the city ; 

And into their mother’s bosom 600 

They pour out their souls like 
water! 


CHRISTUS, going in. 


Give place. Why make ye this 
ado, and weep? . 
She is not dead, but sleepeth. 


THE MOTHER, from within. 
Cruel Death! 


Thou seest the multitude that | To take away from me this tendet 


throng and press thee, 
And sayest thou: Who touched 
me? ’T was not I. 


blossom! 
To take away my dove, my lamb 
my darling! 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 





THE MINSTRELS AND MOURN- 
ERS. 

He hath led me and brought into 
darkness, 

Like the dead of old in dark 
places ! 

He hath bent his bow, and hath set 
me 

Apart as a mark for his arrow! 

He hath covered himself with a 
cloud, 610 

That our prayer should not pass 
through and reach him! 


THE CROWD. 
He stands beside her bed! 
takes her hand! 
Listen, he speaks to her! 


He 


CHRISTUS, within. 
Maiden, arise! 


THE CROWD. 


See, she obeys his voice! 
stirs! She lives! 

Her mother holds her folded in her 
arms ! 

O miracle of miracles! 


She 


O marvel! 


IX 


THE TOWER OF MAGDALA 


MARY MAGDALENE. 


Companionless, unsatisfied, for- 
lorn, 

I sit here in this lonely tower, and 
look 

Upon the lake below me, and the 
hills 

That swoon with heat, and see as 
in a vision 620 

All my past life ‘unroll itself be- 
fore me. 


The princes and the merchants 
come to me, 

Merchants of Tyre and Princes of 
Damascus, 

And pass, and disappear, and are 
no more ; 


485 


But leave behind their merchan- 
dise and jewels, 

Their perfumes, and their gold, and 
their disgust. 

I loathe them, and the very mem- 
ory of them 

Is unto me as thought of food to 


one 

Cloyed with the luscious figs of 
Dalmanutha! 

What if hereafter, in the long here- 
after 630 

Of endless joy or pain, or joy in 
pain, 

It were my punishment to be with 
them 


Grown hideous and decrepit in 
their sins, 

And hear them say: Thou that 
hast brought us here, 

Be unto us as thou hast been of 
old! 


I look upon this raiment that I 
wear, 

These silks, and these embroider- 
ies, and they seem 

Only as cerements wrapped about 
my limbs! 

I look upon these rings thick set 
with pearls, 

And emerald and amethyst and 


jasper, 640 

And they are burning coals upon 
my flesh! 

This serpent on my wrist becomes 
alive ! 

Away, thou viper! and away, ye 
garlands, 


Whose odors bring the swift re 
membrance back 

Of the unhallowed revels in these 
chambers! 

But yesterday, — and yet it seems 
to me 

Something remote, like a pathetic 
song 

Sung long ago by minstrels in the 
street, — 

But yesterday, as from this tower 
I gazed, 


466 





Over the olive and the walnut 
trees 650 

Upon the lake and the white ships, 
and wondered 

Whither and whence they stecred, 
and who was in them, 

A fisher’s boat drew near the land- 
ing-place 

Under the oleanders, and the peo- 
ple 

Came up from it, and passed be- 
neath the tower, 

Close under me. 
as leader, 

Walked one of royal aspect, 
clothed in white, 

Who lifted up his eyes, and looked 
at me, 

And all at once the air seemed 
filled and living 

With a mysterious power, that 
streamed from him, 660 

And overflowed me with an at- 
mosphere 

Of light and love. 
tranced I stood, 

And when I woke again, lo! he 
was gone; 

So that I said: Perhaps it is a 
dream. 

But from that very hour the seven 
demons 

That had their habitation in this 
body 

Which men call beautiful, 
parted from me! 


AS one en- 


de- 


This morning, when the first gleam 
of the dawn 

Made Lebanon a glory in the air, 

And all below was darkness, I be- 
held 670 

An angel, or a spirit glorified, 

With wind-tossed garments walk- 
ing on the lake. 

The face I.could not see, but I dis- 
tinguished 

The attitude and gesture, and,I 
knew 

'T was he that healed me. 
the gusty wind 


And 


In front of them, - 


CHRISTUS: AIMYSTERY 





Brought to mine ears a voica 
which seemed to say: 

Be of good cheer! ’Tis I! 
afraid ! 

And from the darkness, scarcely 
heard, the answer: 

If it be thou, bid me come unte 
thee 

Upon the water! And the voice 
said: Come! 68c 

And then I heard a cry of fear: 
Lord, save me! 

As of a drowning man. And then 
the voice: 

Why didst thou doubt, O thou of 
little faith! 

At this all vanished, and the wind 
was hushed, 

And the great sun came up above 
the hills, 

And the swift-flying vapors hid 
themselves 

In caverns among the rocks! 
T must find him 

And follow him, and be with him 
forever! 


Be not 


Oh, 


Thou box of alabaster, in whose 
walls 

The souls of flowers lie pent, the 
precious balm 690 

And spikenard of Arabian farms, 
the spirits 

Of aromatic herbs, ethereal na- 
tures 

Nursed by the sun and dew, not 
all unworthy 

To bathe his consecrated feet, 
whose step 

Makes every threshold holy that 
he crosses ; 

Let us go forth upon our pilgrim: 
age, 
Thou and I only! 
for him 
Until we find him, and pour out 
our souls 

Before his feet, till all that’s left 
of us 

Shall be the broken caskets that 
once held us! Joe 


Let us search 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


ns 


THE HOUSE OF SIMON THE 
PHARISEE 


A GUEST até table. 


Are ye deceived? Have any of 
the Rulers . 

Believed on him? or do they know 
indeed 

This man to be the very Christ? 
Howbeit 

We know whence this man is, but 
when the Christ 

Shall come, none knoweth whence 
he is. 


CHRISTUS. 


Whereunto shall I liken, then, the 
men 

Of this generation? and what are 
they like? 

They are like children sitting in 
the markets, 

And calling unto one another, say- 
ing: 

We have piped unto you, and ye 
have not danced; 710 

We have mourned unto you, and 
ye have not wept! 

This say I unto you, for John the 
Baptist 

Came neither eating bread nor 
drinking wine; 

Ye say he hath a devil. 
of Man 

Eating and drinking cometh, and 
ye say: 

Behold a gluttonous man, and a 
wine-bibber; 

Behold a friend of publicans and 
sinners! 


The Son 


A GUEST aside to SIMON. 
Who is that woman yonder, glid- 
ing in 
So silently behind him? 
SIMON. 
It: is Mary, 
Who dwelleth in the Tower of 
Magdala. 720 


487 





THE GUEST. 

See, how she kneels there weep. 
ing, and her tears 

Fall on his feet; and her long, 
golden hair 

Waves to and fro and wipes them 
dry again. 

And now she kisses them, and 
from a box 

Of alabaster is anointing them 

With precious ointment, filling all 
the house 

With its sweet odor! 


SIMON, aside. 

Oh, this man, forsooth, 

Were he indeed a Prophet, would 
have known 

Who and what manner of woman 
this may be 

That toucheth him! would know 

she is a sinner! 


730 
CHRISTUS. 
Simon, somewhat have I to say to 
thee, 
SIMON. 


Master, gay on. 


CHRISTUS. 


A certain creditor 
Had once two debtors; and the 
one of them 
Owed him five hundred pence; the 
other, fifty. 
They having naught to pay withal, 
he frankly 
Forgave them both. 
which of them 
Will love him most? 


Now tell me 


SIMON. 


He, I suppose, to whom 
He most forgave. 


CHRISTUS. 


Yea, thou hast rightly judged. 
Seest thou this woman? When 
thine house I entered, 

Thou gavest me no water for my 
feet. 740 


488 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





But she hath washed them with 
her tears, and wiped them 

With her own hair. Thou gavest 
me no kiss; 

This woman hath not ceased, since 
I came in, 

To kiss my feet. 
oil didst thou 

Anoint not; but this woman hath 
anointed 

My feet with ointment. 
say to thee, 

Her sins, which have been many, 
are forgiven, 

For she loved much, 


My head with 


Hence I 


THE GUESTS. 


Oh, who, then, is this man 
That pardoneth also sins without 


atonement? 
CHRISTUS. 
‘Woman, thy faith hath saved thee! 
Go in peace! 750 


THE SECOND PASSOVER 
- 


BEFORE THE GATES 
MACH ARUS 


OF 


MANAHEM. 


WELCOME, O wilderness, and wel- 
come, night 

And solitude, and ye swift-flying 
stars 

That drift with golden sands the 
barren heavens, 

Welcome once more! 
of the Wind 


The Angels 


Hasten across the desert to re- 
ceive me; 

And sweeter than men’s voices are 
to me 

The voices of these solitudes; the 
sound 

Of unseen rivulets, and the far-off 
ery : 

Of bitterns in the reeds of water- 
pools. 


And lo! above me, like the Pro. 
phet’s arrow Ia 

Shot from the eastern window, 
high in air 

The clamorous cranes go singing 
through the night. 

O ye mysterious pilgrims of the 
air, 

Would I had wings that I might 
follow you! 


T look forth from these mountains, 
and behold 

The omnipotent and omnipresent 
night, 

Mysterious as the future and the 
fate 

That hangs o’er all men’s lives! I 
see beneath me 

The desert stretching to the Dead 
Sea shore, 

And westward, faint and far away, 
the glimmer 20 

Of torches on Mount Olivet, an- 
nouncing 

The rising of the Moon of Pass. 
over. 

Like a great cross it seems, on 
which suspended, 

With head bowed down in agony, 
I see 

A human figure! 
ful heaven, 

The awful apparition from my 
sight! 


Hide, O merci- 


And thou, Macheerus, lifting high 
and black | 

Thy dreadful walls against the 
rising moon, 

Haunted by demons and by ap- 


paritions, 
Lilith, and Jezerhara, and Bedar- 
gon, 30 


How grim thou showest in the un- 
certain light, 

A palace and a prison, where King 
Herod 

Feasts with Herodias, while the 
Baptist John 

Fasts, and consumes his unavailk 
ing life! 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


—_— 


And in thy court-yard grows the 
untithed rue, 

Huge as the olives of Gethsem- 
ane, 

And ancient as the terebinth of 
Hebron, 

Coeval with the world. 
that its leaves 

Medicinal could purge thee of the 


Would 


demons 
That now possess thee, and the 
cunning fox 40 


That burrows in thy walls, con- 
triving mischief! 


Music is heard from within. 


Angels of God! Sandalphon, thou 
that weavest 

The prayers of men into immortal 
garlands, 

And thou, Metatron, who dost 
gather up 

Their songs, and bear them to the 

gates of heaven, 

Now gather up together in your 
hands 

The prayers that fill this prison, 
and the songs 

That echo from the ceiling of this 
palace, 

And lay them side by side before 
God’s feet! 


He enters the castle. 


II 
HEROD’S BANQUET-HALL 


MANAHEM. 


Thou hast sent for me, O King, 
and I am here. 50 


HEROD. 
Who art thou? 


MANAHEM. 
Manahem, the Essenian. 


HEROD. 


I recognize thy features, but what 
mean 


489 


These torn and faded garments ? 
On thy road 

Have demons crowded thee, and 
rubbed against thee, 

And given thee weary knees? A 
cup of wine! 


MANAHEM. 
The Essenians drink no wine. 


HEROD. 
What wilt thou, then? 


MANAHEM. 
Nothing. 


HEROD. 
Not even a cup of water ? 


MANAHEM. 


Nothing. 
Why hast thou sent for me? 


HEROD. 


Dost thou remember 
One day when I, a schoolboy in 
the streets 
Of the great city, met thee on my 
way 60 
To school, and thou didst say to 
me: Hereafter 
Thou shalt be king? 


MANAHEM. 
Yea, I remember it. 


HEROD. 


Thinking thou didst not know me, 
I replied: 

I am of humble birth; whereat 
thou, smiling, 

Didst smite me with thy hand, and 
saidst again: 

Thou shalt be King; and let the 
friendly blows 

That Manahem hath given thee on 
this day 

Remind thee of the fickleness of 
fortune. 


MANAHEM. 
What more? 


490 


CHRISTUS: ‘Avo MYSTERY 





HEROD. 
No more. 


MANAHEM. 


Yea, for I said to thee: 
It shall be well with thee if thou 


love justice A 70 
And clemency towards thy fellow- 
men. 


Hast thou done this, O King? 


HEROD. 
Go, ask my people. 


MANAHEM. 


And then, foreseeing all thy life, I 
added: 

But these thou wilt forget; and at 
the end 

Of life the Lord will punish thee. 


HEROD. 


The end! 
When will that come? For this I 
sent to thee. 
How long shall I still reign? 
Thou dost not answer! 
Speak! shall I reign ten years? 


MANAHEM. 


Thou shalt reign twenty, 
Nay, thirty years. I cannot name 
the end. 


HEROD. 


Thirty? I thank thee, good Es- 
senian! 80 

This is my birthday, and a happier 
one 

Was never mine. 
quet here. 

See, yonder are Herodias and her 
daughter, 


We hold a ban- 


MANAHEM, aside. 


'Tis said that devils sometimes 
take the shape 

Of ministering angels, clothed with 
air, 


That they may be inhabitants of 
earth, 

And lead man to destruction. Such 
are these. 


HEROD. 
Knowest thou John the Baptist? 


MANAHEM. 


Yea, I know him; 
Who knows him not ? 


HEROD. 


Know, then, this John the Bap- 

tist 

Said that it was not lawful I Bours 
marry 

My brother Philip’s wife, and J ah 
the Baptist 

Is here in prison. 
time 

Matthias Margaloth was put to 
death 

For tearing the golden eagle from 
its station 

Above the Temple 
slighter crime 

Than John is guilty of. 
things are warnings 

To intermeddlers not to play with 


In my father’s 


Gate, —a 


These 


eagles, 
Living or dead. I think the Es. 
senians 
Are wiser, or more wary, are they 
not?’ 
MANAHEM. 


The Essenians do not marry. 


HEROD. 
Thou hast given 
My words a meaning HOR to 
my thought. 101 
MANAHEM. 
Let me go hence, O King! 


HEROD. 


Stay yet awhile, 
And see the daughter of Herodias 
dance. 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


491 





Cleopatra of Jerusalem, my mo- 
ther, 
In her best days, was not more 
beautiful. 
Music. THE DAUGHTER OF HE- 
RODIAS dances. 


HEROD. 


Oh, what was Miriam dancing with 
her timbrel, 
Compared to this one? 


MANAHEM, aside. 


O thou Angel of Death, 
Dancing at funerals among the 
women, 
When men bear out the dead! 
The air is hot 
And stifles me! Oh for a breath 
of air! IIo 
Bid me depart, O King! 


HEROD. 


Not yet. Come hither, 

Salome, thou enchantress! Ask 
of me 

Whate’er thou wilt; and even un- 
to the half 

Of all my kingdom, I will give it 
thee, 

As the Lord liveth! 


DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS, kyneel- 
ing. 
Give me here the head 
Of John the Baptist on this silver 
charger ! 


HEROD. 


Nct that, dear child! I dare not; 
for the people 
Regard John as a prophet. 


DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS. 
Thou hast sworn it. 


HEROD. 


For mine oath’s sake, then. 
unto the prison ; 

Let him die quickly. Oh,accursed 

' oath! 120 


Send 


MANAHEM. 
Bid me depart, O King! 


HEROD. 


Good Manahem, 

Give me thy hand. I love the Es- 
senians. 

He’s goneand hears me not! The 
guests are dumb, 

Awaiting the pale face, the silent 
witness. 

The lamps flare ; and the curtains 
of the doorways _ 

Wave to and fro as if a ghost were 
passing! 

Strengthen my heart, red wine of 
Ascalon! 


Iil 


UNDER THE WALLS OF 
MACH ZRUS 


MANAHEM, rushing out. 


Away from this Palace of sin! 
The demons, the terrible powers 
Of the air, that haunt its towers 
And hide in its water-spouts, 131 
Deafen me with the din 
Of their laughter and their shouts 
For the crimes that are done with- 
in! 


Sink back into the earth, 

Or vanish-into the air, 

Thou castle of despair! 

Let it all be but a dream 

Of the things of monstrous birth, 
Of the things that only seem! 140 
White Angel of the Moon, 
Onafiel! be my guide 

Out of this hateful place 

Of sin and death, nor hide 

Tn yon black cloud too soon 

Thy pale and tranquil face! 


A trumpet is blown from the walls 


Hark! hark! Itis the breath 
Of the trump of doom and death, 
From the battlements overhead 


492 





Like a burden of sorrow cast 
On the midnight and the blast, 
A wailing for the dead, 
That the gusts drop and uplift! 
O Herod, thy vengeance is swilt! 
O Herodias, thou hast been 
The demon, the evil thing, 
That in place of Esther the Queen, 
In place of the lawful bride, 
Hast lain at night by the side 
Of Ahasuerus the king! 
The trumpet again. 
The Prophet of God is dead ! 
Ata drunken monarch’s call, 
At a dancing-woman’s beck, 
They have severed that stubborn 
neck 
And into the banquet-hall 
Are bearing the ghastly head! 
A body is thrown from the 
tower. 
A torch of lurid red 
Lights the window with its glow; 
And a white mass as of snow 
Is hurled into the abyss 
Of the black precipice, 
That yawns for it below! 
O hand of the Most High, 
O hand of Adonai ! 
Bury it, hide it away 
From the birds and beasts of prey, 
And the eyes of the homicide, 
More pitiless than they, 
As thou didst bury of yore 
The body of him that died 
On the mountain of Peor! 
Even now I behold a sign, 
A threatening of wrath divine, 
A watery, wandering star, 
Through whose streaming hair, 
and the white 
Unfolding garments of light, 
That trail behind it afar, 
The constellations shine! 
And the whiteness and brightness 
appear 
Like the Angel bearing the Seer 
By the hair of his head, in the 
might 1gI 
And rush of his vehement flight. 
And I listen until I hear 


150 


160 


170 


180 





CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 


ee ee 


From fathomless depths of the sky 
The voice of his prophecy 
Sounding louder and more near ! 


Malediction ! malediction! 

May the lightnings of heaven fall 
On palace and prison wall, 

And their desolation be 200 
As the day of fear and affliction, 
As the day of anguish and ire, 
With the burning and fuel of fire, 
In the Valley of the Sea! 


IV 
NICODEMUS AT NIGHT 


NICODEMUS. 


The streets are silent. 
houses seem 

Like sepulchres, in 
sleepers lie 

Wrapped in their shrouds, and for 
the moment dead. 

The lamps are all extinguished; 


The dark 


which the 


only one 

Burns steadily, and from the door 
its light 

Lies like a shining gate across the 
street. 210 

He waits for me. Ah, should this 
be at last 

The long-expected Christ! I see 
him there 

Sitting alone, deep-buried in his 
thought, 


As if the weight of all the world 
were resting 

Upon him, and thus bowed him 
down. O Rabbi, 

We know thou art a Teacher come 
from God, 

For no man can perform the mira 
cles 

Thou dost perform, except the 
Lord be with him. 

Thou art a Prophet, sent here to 


proclaim 
The Kingdom of the Lord. Be- 
hold in me 220 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


493 


EN  —ee=—_eeeeeees 


A Ruler of the Jews, who long 
have waited 

The coming of that kingdom. Tell 
me Ot it. 


CHRISTUS. 


Verily, verily I say unto thee, 

Except a man be born again, he 
cannot 

Behold the Kingdom of God! 


NICODEMUS. 


Be born again? 
How can a man be born when he 
is old ? 
Say, can he enter for a second 
time 
Into his mother’s womb, and so 
be born? 


CHRISTUS. 


Verily I say unto thee, except 

Aman be born of water and the 
spirit, 230 

He cannot enter into the Kingdom 
of God. 

For that which of the flesh is born, 
is flesh; 

And that which of the spirit is 
born, is spirit. 


NICODEMUS. 


We Israelites from the Primeval 
Man 

Adam Abhelion derive our bod- 
ies; 

Our souls are breathings of the 
Holy Ghost. 

No more than this we know, or 
need to know. 


CHRISTUS. 

Then marvel not, that I said unto 
thee 

Ye mst be born again. 


NICODEMUS. 
The mystery 
Df birth and death we cannet com- 
prehend, 240 


CHRISTUS. 

The wind bloweth where it listeth, 
and we hear 

The sound thereof, but Know not 
whence it cometh, 

Nor whither it goeth. So is every 
one 

Born of the spirit! 


NICODEMUS, aside, 


How can these things be? 

He seems to speak of some vague 
realm of shadows, 

Some unsubstantial kingdom of 
the air! 

It is not this the Jews are waiting 
for, ; 

Nor can this be the Christ, the Son 
of David, 

Who shall deliver us! 


CHRISTUS. 


Art thou a master 
Of Israel, and knowest not these 


things ? 250 
We speak that we do know, and 
testify 


That we have seen, and ye will 
not receive 

Our witness. If I tell you earthly 
things, 

And ye believe not, how shall ye 
believe, 

If I should tell you of things hea- 
venly ? 

And no man hath ascended up to 
heaven, 

But He alone that first came down 
from heaven, 

Even the Son of Man which is in 
heaven ! 


NICODEMUS, aside. 


This is a dreamer of dreams; a 
visionary, 

Whose brain is overtasked, until 
he deems 260 

The unseen world to be a thing 
substantial, 

And this we live in, an unreal 
vision ! 


494 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





And yet his presence fascinates 
and fills me 

With wonder, and I feel myself 
exalted 

Into a higher region, and become 

Myself in part a dreamer of his 
dreams, 

A seer of his visions! 


CHRISTUS. 


And as Moses 
Uplifted the serpent in the wilder- 


ness, 

So must-the Son of Man be lifted 
up; 

That whosoever shall believe in 
Him 270 

Shall perish not, but have eternal 
life. 


He that believes in Him is not 
condemned ; 

He that believes not, is condemned 
already. 


NICODEMUS, aside. 


He speaketh like a Prophet of the 
Lord! 


CHRISTUS. 


This is the condemnation; 
the light 

Is come into the world, and men 
loved darkness 

Rather than light, because their 
deeds are evil! 


that 


NICODEMUS, aside, 
Of me he speaketh! He reprov- 
eth me, 
Because I come by night to ques- 
tion him! 


CHRISTUS. 


For every one that doeth evil 
deeds 280 

Hateth the light, nor cometh to 
the light, 

Lest he should be reproved, 


NICODEMUS, aside. 
Alas, how truly 


He readeth what is passing in my 
heart! 


CHRISTUS. 
But he that doeth truth comes he 
the light, 
So that his deeds may be Hee 
manifest, 
That they are wrought in God. 
NICODEMUS. 
Alas! alas} 


Vv 


BLIND BARTIMEUS 


BARTIMEUS, 
Be not impatient, Chilion; it is 
pleasant 
To sit here in the shadow of the 
walls 


Under the palms, and hear the 
hum of bees, 

And rumor of voices passing to 
and fro, 290 

And drowsy bells of caravans on 
their way 

To Sidon or Damascus. 
still 

The City of Palms, and yet the 
walls thou seest 

Are not the old walls, 
walls where Rahab 

Hid the two spies, and let them 
down by cords 

Out of the window, when the gates 
were shut, 

And it was dark. Those walls 
were overthrown 

When Joshua’s army shouted, and 
the priests 

Blew with their seven trumpets. 


This is 


not the 


CHILION. 
When was that! 


BARTIMEUS. 
O my Sweet rose of Jericho, 1] 
knew not. 306 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


495 


ee eh a 


‘Jundreds of years ago. And over 
there 

Beyond the river, the great pro- 
phet Elijah 

Was taken by a whirlwind up to 
heaven 

{n chariot of fire, with fiery horses. 

That is the plain of Moab; and 
beyond it 

Rise the blue summits of Mount 
Abarim, 

Nebo and Pisgah and Peor, where 
Moses 

Died, whom the Lord knew face 
to face, and whom 

He buried in a valley, and no man 

Knows of his sepulchre unto this 
day. 310 

CHILION. 

Would thou couldst see these 

places, as I see them. 


BARTIMEUS. 


I have not seena glimmer of the 
light 

Since thou wast born. I never 
saw thy face, 

And yet I seem to see it; and one 
day 

Perhaps shall see it; for there is 
a Prophet \ 

In Galilee, the Messiah, the Son 
of David, 

Who heals the. blind, if I could 
only find him. 

I hear the sound of many feet ap- 
proaching, 

And voices, like the murmur of a 
crowd! 

What seest thou? 


CHILION. 


A young man clad in white 
Is coming through the gateway, 
and a crowd 321 

Of people follow. 


BARTIMEUS. 
Can it be the Prophet! 
© neighbors, tell me who ic is that 
passes ? 


ONE OF THE CROWD. 
Jesus of Nazareth. 


BARTIMEUS, crying. 


O Son of David! 
Have mercy on me! 


MANY OF THE CROWD. 


Peace, Blind Bartimeus! 
Do not disturb the Master. 


BARTIMEUS, crying more vehe- 
nrently. 


Son of David, 
Have mercy on me! 


ONE OF THE CROWD. 


See, the Master stops. 
Be of good comfort; rise, He ecall- 
eth thee! 328 


BARTIMEUS, casting away his 
cloak. 


Chilion! good neighbors! lead me 
on. 


CHRISTUS. 


What wilt thou 
That I should do to thee ? 


BARTIMEUS. 
Good Lord! my sight — 
That I receive my sight! 


CHRISTUS, 


Receive thy sight! 
Thy faith hath made thee whole! 


THE CROWD. 
He sees again! 


CHRISTUS passes on. The crowd 
gathers round BARTIMEUS. 


BARTIMEUS. 


I see again; but sight bewilders 
me! 

Like a remembered dream, fa 
miliar things 

Come back to me, 
der sky 


I see the ten. 


496 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





Above me, see the trees, the city 
walls, 

And the old gateway, through 
whose echoing arch 

I groped so many years; and you, 
my neighbors ; 

But know you by your friendly 
voices only. 

How beautiful the world is! and 
how wide! 340 

Oh, Iam miles away, if I but look! 

Where art thou, Chilion ? 


CHILION. 
Father, I am here. 


BARTIMEUS. 


Oh let me gaze upon thy face, dear 
ehild! 

For I have only seen thee with my 
hands! 

How beautiful thou art! 
have known thee; 

Thou hast her eyes whom we shall 
see hereafter ! 


I should 


O Godof Abraham! Elion! Ado- 
nai! 

Who art thyself a Father, pardon 
me 

If for a moment I have thee post- 
poned 

To the affections and the thoughts 
of earth, 350 

Thee, and the adoration that I 
owe thee, 


When by thy power alone these 
darkened eyes 

Have been unsealed again to see 
thy light! 


NAL 
JACOB’S WELL 


A SAMARITAN WOMAN. 

The sun is hot; and the dry east- 
wind blowing 

Fills all the air with dust. The 
birds are silent; 

Even the little fieldfares in the 
corn 


No longer twitter ; only the grass- 
hoppers 

Sing their incessant song of sup 
and summer. 


I wonder who those strangers 
were I met 

Going into the city? Galileans 

They seemed to me in speaking, 
when they asked 361 

The short way to the market- 
place. Perhaps 

They are fishermen from the lake; 
or travellers, 

Looking to find the inn. And here 
is some one 

Sitting beside the well; 
stranger ; 

A Galilean also by his looks. 

What can so many Jews be doing 
here 

Together in Samaria? Are they 
going 

Up to Jerusalem to the Passover ? 

Our Passover is better here at 


another 


Sychem, 370 

For here is Ebal; here is Geri- 
zim, 

The mountain where our father 
Abraham 

Went up to offer Isaac; here the 
tomb 


Of Joseph, —for they brought his 
bones from Egypt 

And buried them in this land, and 
it is holy. 


CHRISTUS. 
Give me to drink. 


SAMARITAN WOMAN. 


How can it be that thou, 
Being a Jew, askest to drink of 
me 
Which am a woman of Samaria ? 
You Jews despise us; have no 
dealings with us; 


‘Make us a byword; call us in de. 


rision 380 
The silly folk of Sychar. Sir, how 
is it 


Thou askest drink of me ? 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


497 





CHRISTUS. 
If thou hadst known 
The gift of God, and who it is that 
sayeth 
Give me to drink, thou wouldst 
have asked of Him; 
He would have given thee the liv- 
ing water. 


SAMARITAN WOMAN... 

Sir, thou hast naught to draw with, 
and the well 

Is deep! Whence hast thou liv- 
ing water ? 

Say, art thou greater than our fa- 
ther Jacob, 

Which gave this well to us, and 
drank thereof 

Himself, and all his children and 
his cattle ? 390 


CHRISTUS, 


Ah, whosoever drinketh of this 
water 

Shall thirst again; but whosoever 
drinketh 

The water I shall give him shall 
not thirst 

Forevermore, for it shall be within 
him 

A well of living water, springing up 

Into life everlasting. 


SAMARITAN WOMAN. 


Every day 
I must go to and fro, in heat and 
cold, 

And I am weary. 
water, 
That I may thirst not, nor come 

here to draw. 


Give me of this 


CHRISTUS. 

Go eall thy husband, woman, and 
come hither. 4co 
SAMARITAN WOMAN, 

T have no husband, Sir. 


CHRISTUS. 
Thou hast well said 


I have no husband. Thou hast 
had five husbands ; 

And he whom now thou hast is not 
thy husband, 


SAMARITAN WOMAN. 


Surely thou art a Prophet, for thou 
readest 

The hidden things of life! 
fathers worshipped 

Upon this mountain Gerizim ; and 
ye say 

The only place in which men 
ought to worship 

Is at Jerusalem. 


Our 


CHRISTUS. 


Believe me, woman, 

The hour is coming, when ye 
neither shall 409 

Upon this mount, nor at Jerusalem, 

Worship the Father; for the hour 
is coming, 

And is now come, when the true 
worshippers 

Shall worship the Father in spirit 
and in truth! 

The Father seeketh such to wor- 
ship Him. 

God is a spirit: and they that wor- 
ship Him 

Must worship Him in spirit and in 
truth. 


SAMARITAN WOMAN. 
Master, I know that the Messiah 
cometh, 
Which is called Christ; and He 
will tell us all things. 


CHRISTUS. 
I that speak unto thee am He! 


THE DISCIPLES, returning. 


Behold, 

The Master sitting by the well, 

and talking 420 

With a Samaritan woman! W:th 
a@ woman 

Of Sychar, the silly people, always 
boasting 


495 


CHRISTUS: 


A MYSTERY 





Of their Mount Ebal, and Mount | Lift up your eyes, and look upon 


Gerizim, 

Their Everlasting Mountain, which 
they think 

Higher and holier than our Mount 
Moriah! 

Why, once upon the Feast of the 
New Moon, 

When our great Sanhedrim of 
Jerusalem 

Had all its watch-fires kindled on 
the hills 

To warn the distant villages, these 
people 

Lighted up others to mislead the 
Jews, 430 

And make a mockery of their 
festival! 

See, she has left the Master; and 
is running 

Back to the city! 


SAMARITAN WOMAN. 
Oh, come see a man 
Who hath told me all things that 
I ever did! 
Say, is not this the Christ? 


THE DISCIPLES. 
Lo, Master, here 
Is food, that we have brought thee 
from the city. 
We pray thee eat it. 


CHRISTUS. 


I have food to eat 
Ye know not of. 


THE DISCIPLES, to each other. 
Hath any man been here, 
And brought Him aught to eat, 
while we were gone? 


CHRISTUS. 


The food I speak of is to do the 
will 440 

Of Him that sent me, and to finish 
his work. 

Do ye not say, Lo! there are yet 
four months 


And cometh harvest? I say unto. 


you, 


the fields, 
For they are white already untae 
harvest ! 


VIL 


THE COASTS OF CAHSAREA 
PHILIPPI 


CHRISTUS, going up the mountain. 
Who do the people say Iam? 


JOHN. 


Some say 
That thou art John the Baptist; 
some, Elias; 
And others Jeremiah. 


JAMES. 


Or that one 
Of the old Prophets is arisen again. 


CHRISTUS. 
But who say ye lam? 


PETER. 


Thou art the Christ} 
Thou art the Son of God! 


CHRISTUS. 
Blessed art thouy 
Simon Barjona! Flesh and blood 
hath not 452 
Revealed it unto thee, but even 
my Father, 
Which is in Heaven. And I say 
unto thee 
That thou art Peter; and upon 
this rock 
I build my Church, and all the 
gates of Hell 
Shall not prevail against it. But 
take heed 
Ye tell to no man that I am the 
Christ. 
For I must go up to Jerusalem, 
And suffer many things, and be 
rejected 460 
Of the Chief Priests, and of the 
Scribes and Elders, 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


499 





And must be crucified, and the 
third day 
Shall rise again! 


PETER, 


Be it far from thee, Lord! 
This shall not be! 


CHRISTUS. 
Get thee behind me, Satan! 
Thou savorest not the things that 
be of God, 


But those that be of men! If any 
will 

Come after me, let him deny him- 
self, 

And daily take his cross, and 
follow me, 


For whosoever will save his life 
shall lose it, 

And whosoever will lose his life 
shall find it, 470 

For wherein shall a man be profit- 
ed 

If he shall gain the whole world, 
and shall lose 

Himself or be a castaway ? 


JAMES, after a long pause. 


Why doth 
The Master lead us up into this 
mountain ? 
PETER. 


He goeth up to pray. 


JOHN. 


See, where He standeth 

Above us on the summit of the 
hill! 

His face shines as the sun! and 
all-his raiment 

Exceeding white as snow, so as no 
fuller 

On earth can white them! 
not alone ; 

There are two with Him there; 
two men of eld, 480 

Their white beards blowing on the 
mountain air, 

Ave talking with him. 


He is 


JAMES. 
Iam sore afraid) 


PETER. 
Who and whence are they ? 


JOHN. 
Moses and Elias! 


PETER. 


O Master! it is good for us to be 
here! 
If thou wilt, let us make three 
tabernacles ; 
For thee one, and for Moses and 
Elias ! 
JOHN, 


Behold a bright cloud sailing in 
the sun! 

It overshadows us. A golden mist 

Now hides them from us, and en- 
velops us 

And alJ the mountain in a luminous 
shadow ! 490 

Isee no more. The nearest rocks 
are hidden. 


VOICE from the cloud. 


Lo! this is my beloved Son! 
Him! 


Hear 


PETER. 
It is the voice of God. He speak- 
eth to us, 


| As from the burning bush He 


spake to Moses! 


JOHN. 


The cloud-wreaths roll away. The 
veil is lifted ; 


We see again. Behold! He is 
alone, 

It was a vision that our eyes be- 
held, 

And it hath vanished into the un. 
seen. 


CHRISTUS, coming down from the 
mountain. 


I charge ye, tell the vision unto na 
one, 


500 


Till the Son of Man be risen from 
the dead! 500 


PETER, aside. 


Again He speaks of it! What can 
it mean, 
This rising from the dead ? 


JAMES. 


Why say the Scribes 
Elias must first come ? 


CHRISTUS. 


He cometh first, 
Restoring all things. But I say to 
you, 
That this Elias is already come. 
They knew him not, but have done 
unto him 
Whate’er they listed, as is written 
of him. 


PETER, aside. 
It is of John the Baptist He is 


speaking. 
JAMES. 
As we descend, see, at the moun- 
tain’s foot, 
A crowd of people; coming, going, 
thronging 510 
Round the disciples, that we left 
behind us, 
Seeming impatient, that we stay so 
long. 
PETER. 
It is some blind man, or some par- 
alytic 


That waits the Master’s coming 
to be healed. 


JAMES, 


I see a boy, who struggles and de- 
means him 

As if an unclean spirit tormented 
him} 


A CERTAIN MAN, running for- 
ward. 
Lord! I beseech thee, look upon 
my son. 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





He is mine only child; a lunatic, 

And sorely vexed; for oftentimes 
he falleth 

Into the fire and oft into the water. 

Wherever the dumb spirit taketh 
him 

He teareth him. 
with his teeth, 

And pines away. I spake to thy 
disciples 

That they should cast him out, and 
they could not. 


521 
He gnasheth 


CHRISTUS. 
O faithless generation and per- 
verse ! 
How long shall I be with you, and 
suffer you? 
Bring thy son hither. 


BYSTANDERS, 
How the unclean spirit 
Seizes the boy, and tortures him 
with pain! 
He falleth to the ground and wal- 
lows, foaming! 529 
He cannot live. 


CHRISTUS. 


How long is it ago 
Since this came unto him ? 


THE FATHER. 
Even of a child. 
Oh, have compassion on us, Lord, 
and help us, 
If thou canst help us. 


CHRISTUS. 
If thou canst believe. 
For unto him that verily believeth, 
All things are possible. 


THE FATHER. 


Lord, I believe! 
Help thou mine unbelief! 


CHRISTUS. 


Dumb and deaf spirit, 
Come out of him, I charge thea 
and no more 
Enter thou into him! 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


501 





The boy utters a loud cry of pain, 
and then lies still. 


BYSTANDERS. 


How motionless 

He lieth there. No life is left in 
him. 

His eyes are like a blind man’s, 

that see not. 540 


The boy is dead! 


OTHERS. 


Behold! the Master stoops, 
And takes him by the hand, and 
lifts him up. 
He is not dead. 


DISCIPLES. 


But one word from those lips, 
But one touch of that hand, and 
he is healed! 
Ah, why could we not do it? 


THE FATHER. 


My poor child! 

Now thou art mine again. The 
unclean spirit 

Shall never more torment thee! 

Look at me! 

Speak unto me! 

knowest me ! 


Say that thou 


DISCIPLES to CHRISTUS, depart- 


ing. 
Good Master, tell us, for what rea- 
son was it 549 


We could not cast him out? 


CHRISTUS. 
Because of your unbelief! 


VIII 
THE YOUNG RULER 


CHRISTUS. 


Two men went up into the temple 
to pray. 

The one was a self-righteous Phar- 
isee, 


The other a Publican. And the 
Pharisee 

Stood and prayed thus within him- 
self! O God, 

I thank thee I am not as other 
men, 

Extortioners, unjust, adulterers, 

Or even as this Publican. I fast 

Twice in the week, and also I give 


tithes 

Of all that I possess! The Publi- 
can, 

Standing afar off, would not lift so 
much 560 


Even as his eyes to heaven, but 
smote his breast, 

Saying: God be merciful to mea 
sinner! 

I tell you that this man went to 
his house 

More justified than the other. 
Every one 

That doth exalt himself shall be 
abased, 

And he that humbleth himself 
shall be exalted! 


CHILDREN, among themselves. 


Let us go nearer! He is telling 
stories! 
Let us go listen to them. 


AN OLD JEW. 


Children, children! 
What are ye doing here? Why do 
ye crowd us? 
It was such little vagabonds as 
you, 57° 
That followed Elisha, mocking 
him and crying: 
Go up, thou bald-head ! 
bears — the bears 
Came out of the wood, and tare 
them ! 


But the 


A MOTHER. 
Speak not thus! 
We brought them here, that He 
might lay his hands 
On them, and bless them. 


502 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





CHRISTUS. 


Suffer little children 
To come unto me, and forbid them 
not; 
Of such is the kingdom of heaven; 
and their angels 
Look always on my Father’s face. 


Takes them in his arms and 
blesses them. 


A YOUNG RULER, running. 
Good Master! 
What good thing shail I do, that I 
may have 579 
Eternal life ? 


CHRISTUS. 


Why eallest thou me good ? 
There is none good but one, and 
that is God. 
If thou wilt enter into life eternal, 
Keep the commandments. 


YOUNG RULER. 
Which of them? 


CHRISTUS. 


Thou shalt not 
Commit adultery; thou shalt not 
kill; 

Thou shalt not steal; thou shalt 
not bear false witness ; 
Honor thy father and thy mother; 

and love 
Thy neighbor as thyself. 


YOUNG RULER. 
From my youth up 


All these things have I kept. 
What lack I yet? 


JOHN. 

With what divine compassion in 
his eyes 

The Master looks upon this eager 
youth, 590 

As if He loved him! 


CHRISTUS. 
Wouldst thou perfect be, 


Sell all thou hast, and give it to 
the poor, 

And come, take up thy cross, and 
follow me, 

And thou shalt have thy treasure 
in the heavens. 


JOHN. 


Behold, how sorrowful he turns 
away! 


CHRISTUS. 

Children! how hard it is for them 
that trust 

In riches to enter into the kingdom 
of God! 

*"Tis easier for a camel to go 
through 

A needle’s eye, than for the rich to 
enter 596 

The kingdom of God! 


JOHN.: 
Ah, who then can be savedi 


CHRISTUS. 


With men this is indeed impossi 
ble, 

But unto God all things are possi- 
ble! 


PETER. 
Behold, we have left all, and fol- 
lowed thee. 
What shall we have therefor ? 
CHRISTUS. 
Eternal life. 


IX 
AT BETHANY 


MARTHA busy about household 
affairs. MARY sitting at the foot 
of CHRISTUS. 


MARTHA, 
She sitteth idly at the Master’s feet, 
And troubles not herself with 
household cares. 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 





'T is the old story. When a guest 
arrives 

She gives up all to be with him; 
while I 

Must be the drudge, make ready 
the guest-chamber, 

Prepare the food, set everything in 
order, 610 

And see that naught is wanting in 
the house, 

She shows her love by words, and 
I by works. 


MARY. 


O Master! when thou comest, it is 
always 

A Sabbath in the house. 
work; 

I must sit at thy feet; must see 
thee, hear thee! 

I have a feeble, wayward, doubt- 
ing heart, 

Incapable of endurance or great 
thoughts, 

Striving for something that it can- 
not reach, 

Baffled and disappointed, wound- 
ed, hungry ; 

And only when I hear thee am I 


IT cannot 


happy, 620 

And only when I see thee am at 
peace! 

Stronger than I, and wiser, and far 
better 

In every manner, is my sister 
Martha. 

Thou -seest how well she orders 
everything 


To make thee welcome; how she 
comes and goes, 

Careful and cumbered ever with 
much serving, 

While I but welcome thee with 
foolish words! 

Whene’er thou speakest to me, I 
am happy; ; 

When thou art silent, I am satis- 
fied. 

Thy presence is enough. I ask 
no more. 630 


503 


Only to be with thee, only to see 
thee, 

Sufficeth me. 
rest. 

I wonder I am worthy of so 
much. 


My heart is then at 


MARTHA. 


Lord, dost thou care not that my 
sister Mary 

Hath left me thus to wait on thee 
alone ? 

I pray thee, bid her help me. 


CHRISTUS. 


Martha, Martha, 
Careful and troubled about many 
things 
Art thou, and yet one thing alone 
is needful! 
Thy sister Mary hath chosen that 
good part, 
Which never shall be taken away 
from her! 640 


x 
BORN BLIND 


A JEW. 
Who is this beggar blinking in the 
sun ? 
Is it not he who used to sit and 
beg 
By the Gate Beautiful? 


ANOTHER. 
It is the same, 


A THIRD. 
It is not he, but like him, for that 
beggar 
Was blind from birth. 
be the same. 


It cannot 


THE BEGGAR. 
Yea, I am he. 


A JEW. 
How have thine eyes been opened? 


504 





THE BEGGAR. 
A man that is called Jesus made 


a clay 

And put it on mine eyes, and said 
to me: 

Go to Siloam’s Pool and wash thy- 
self, 

I went and washed, and I received 
my sight. 650 

A JEW. 


Where is He? 


THE BEGGAR. 
I know not. 


PHARISEES. 


What is this crowd 
Gathered about a beggar? What 
has happened ? 


A JEW. 
is a man who hath been 
blind from birth, 
And now he sees. He says a man 
called Jesus 
Hath healed him. 


Here 


PHARISEES. 
As God liveth, the Nazarene! 
How was this done? 


THE BEGGAR. 


Rabboni, he put clay 
Upon mine eyes; I washed, and 
now I see. 


PHARISEES. 
When did he this? 


THE BEGGAR. 
Rabboni, yesterday. 


PHARISEES. 
The Sabbath day. This man is 
not of God 
Beeause he keepeth not the Sab- 
bath day! 660 
A JEW. 


How cana man that is a sinner do 
Such miracles ? 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 


PHARISEES. 
What dost thou say of him 
That hath restored thy sight ? 


THE BEGGAR. 
He is a Prophet. 


A JEW. 


This is a wonderful story, but not 
true. ; 

A beggar’s fiction. 
born blind, 

And never has been blind! 


He was not 


OTHERS. 
Here are his parents. 
Ask them. 
PHARISEES. 
Is this your son? 


THE PARENTS. 


Rabboni, yea; 
We know this is our son. 


PHARISEES. 
Was he born blind 


THE PARENTS. 
He was born blind. 


PHARISEES. 
Then how doth he now see? 


THE PARENTS, aside. 


What answer shall we make? If 
we confess 670 

It was the Christ, we shall be 
driven forth 

Out of the Synagogue! 
Rabboni, 

This is our son, and that he was 
born blind; 

But by what means he seeth, we 
know not, 

Or who his eyes hath opened, we 


We know, 


know not. 
He is of age; ask him; we cannot 
Say ; 


He shall speak for himself. 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


505 





PHARISEES. 


Give God the praise! 
We know the man that healed 
thee is a sinner! 


THE BEGGAR. 


Whether He be a sinner, I know 
not; 

One thing I know; that whereas I 
was blind, 680 

I now do see. 


PHARISEES. 


How opened he thine eyes ? 
What did he do? 


THE BEGGAR. 


I have already told you. 
Ye did not hear: why would ye 
hear again ? 
Will ye be his disciples? 


PHARISEES. 


God of Moses! 

Are we demoniacs, are we halt or 
blind, 

Or palsy-stricken, or lepers, or the 
like, 

That we should join the Syna- 
gogue of Satan, 

And follow jugglers? 
his disciple, 

But we are disciples of Moses; 
and we know 

That God spake unto Moses; but 
this fellow, 690 

We know not whence he is! 


Thou art 


THE BEGGAR. 


Why, herein is 

A marvellous thing! Ye know not 
whence He is, 

Yet He hath opened mine eyes! 
We know that God 

Heareth not sinners; but if any 
man 

Doeth God’s will, and is his wor- 
shipper, 

Him doth He hear. 
world began 


Oh, since the 


It was not heard that any man 
hath opened 

The eyes of one that was born 
blind. If He 

Were not of God, surely He could 
do nothing! 


PHARISEES. 


Thou, who wast altogether born in 
sins 700 

And in iniquities, dost thou teach 
us? 

Away with thee out of the holy 
places, 

Thou reprobate, thou beggar, thou 
blasphemer! 


THE BEGGAR is cast out. 


XI 


SIMON MAGUS AND HELEN OF 
TYRE 


On the house-top at Endor. Night. 
A lighted lantern on a table. 


SIMON. 


Swift are the blessed Immortals to 
the mortal 

That perseveres! So doth it stand 
recorded 

In the divine Chaldzan Oracles 

Of Zoroaster, once Ezekiel’s slave, 

Who in his native East betook 


himself 
To lonely meditation, and the 
writing 710 


On the dried skins of oxen the 
Twelve Books 

Of the Avesta and the Oracles! 

Therefore { persevere; and I have 
brought thee 

From the great city of Tyre, where 
men deride 

The things they comprehend not 
to this plain 

Of Esdraelon, in the Hebrew 
tongue 

Called Armageddon, and this town 
of Endor, 


506 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





Where men believe; where all the 
air is full 
Of marvellous traditions, and the 


Enchantress 
That summoned up the ghost of 
Samuel 720 


Is still remembered. Thou hast 
seen the land; 
Is it not fair to look on? 


HELEN. 


It is fair, 
Yet not so fair as Tyre. 


SIMON. 


Is not Mount Tabor 
As beautiful as Carmel by the 
Sea? 


HELEN. 


It is too silent and too solitary ; 

I miss the tumult of the streets; 
the sounds 

Of traffic, and the going to and fro 

Of people in gay attire, with cloaks 
of purple, 

And gold and silver jewelry! 


SIMON. 
Inventions 
Of Ahriman, the spirit of the 
dark, 730 


The Evil Spirit! 


HELEN. 


I regret the gossip 


Of friends and neighbors at the 
open door 
On summer nights. 
SIMON. 
An idle waste of time. 


HELEN. 

The singing and the dancing, the 
delight 

Of music and of motion. Woe is 
me 


To give up all these pleasures, and 


to lead’ 
The life we lead! 


SIMON. 
Thou canst not raise thyself 
Up to the level of my higher 
thought, 
And though possessing thee, I still 
remain 
Apart from thee, and with thee, 
am alone 740 
In my high dreams. 


HELEN. 
Happier was I in Tyre. 
Oh, I remember how the gallant 
ships 
Came sailing in, with ivory, gold, 
and silver, 
And apes and peacocks; and the 
singing sailors, 
And the gay captains with their 
silken dresses, 
Smelling of aloes, myrrh, and cin- 
namon! 


SIMON. 
But the dishonor, Helen! 
ships 
Of Tarshish howl for that! 


Let the 


HELEN. 


And what dishonor ? 
Remember Rahab, and how she 
became 
The ancestress of the great Psalm- 
ist David; 759 
And wherefore should not I, Helen 
of Tyre, 
Attain like honor? 


SIMON. 


Thou art Helen of Tyre, 

And hast been Helen of Troy, and 
hast been Rahab, 

The Queen of Sheba, and Semira- 
mis, 

And Sara of seven husbands, and 
Jezebel, 

And other women of the like al. 
lurements ; 

And now thou art Minerva, the 
first Zon, 


The Mother of Angels! 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 





HELEN. 
And the coneubine 


Of Simon the Magician! Is it 
honor 

For one who has been all these 
noble dames, 760 

To tramp about the dirty vil- 
lages 

And cities of Samaria with a jug- 
gler? 


A charmer of serpents ? 


SIMON. 


He who knows himself 

Knows all things in himself. I 
have charmed thee, 

Thou beautiful asp: yet am I no 
magician. 

I am the Power of God, and the 
Beauty of God! 

I am the Paraclete, the Comfort- 
er! 


HELEN. 


Illusions! Thou deceiver, self-de- 
ceived! 

Thou dost usurp the titles of 
another ; 

Thou art not what thou sayest. 


SIMON. 


Am I not? 
Then feel my power. 


HELEN. 
Would I had ne’er left Tyre! 


He looks at her, and she sinks in- 
to a deep sleep. 


SIMON. 


Go, see it in thy dreams, fair un- 
believer ! 772 

And leave me unto mine, if they 
be dreams, 

That take such shapes before me, 
that I see them ; 

These effable and ineffable im- 
pressions 


Of the mysterious world, that come. 


to me 


From the elements of Fire and 
Earth and Water, 

And the all-nourishing Ether! It 
is written, 

Look not on Nature, for her name 


is fatal! 
Yet there are Principles, that make 
apparent 786 


The images of unapparent things, 

And the impression of vague char- 
acters 

And visions most divine appear in 
ether. 

So speak the Oracles; then where- 
fore fatal ? 

I take this orange-bough, with its 
five leaves, 

Each equidistant on the upright 
stem ; 

And I project them on a plane be- 
low, 

In the circumference of a circle 
drawn 

About a centre where the stem is 
planted, 

And each still equidistant from 
the other; 790. 

As ifa thread of gossamer were 
drawn 

Down from each leaf, and fastened 
with a pin. 

Now if from these five points a 
line be traced 

To each alternate point, we shall 
obtain 

The Pentagram, or Solomon’s Pen- 
tangle, 

A charm against all witchcraft, 
and a Sign, 


| Which on the banner of Anti- 


ochus 

Drove back the fierce barbarians 
of the North, 

Demons esteemed, and gave the 
Syrian King 

The sacred name of Soter, or of 


Savior. 800 
Thus Nature works mysteriously 
with man; 


And from the Eternal One, as from 
a centre, 


508 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





All things proceed, in fire, air, 
earth, and water, 

And all ‘are subject to one law, 
which broken 

Even in a Single point, is broken 
in all; 

Demons rush in, and chaos comes 
again. 


By this will I compel the stubborn 
spirits, 

That guard the treasures, hid in 
caverns deep 


On Gerizim, by Uzzi the High-. 


Priest, 

The ark and holy vessels, to re- 
veal 810 

Their secret unto me, and to re- 
store 

These precious things to the Sa- 
maritans. 

A mist is rising from the plain be- 
low me, 

And as I look, the vapors shape 
themselves 

Into strange figures, as if una- 
wares 

My lips had breathed the Tetra- 
grammaton, 


And from their graves, o’er all the 
battle-fields 

Of Armageddon, the long-buried 
captains 

Had started, with their thousands, 
and ten thousands, 

And rushed together to renew 

their wars, 820 

Powerless, and weaponless, and 
without a sound! 

Wake, Helen, from thy sleep! The 
air grows cold; 

Let us go down. 


HELEN, awaking. 
Oh, would I were at home! 


SIMON. 


Thou sayest that I usurp another’s 
titles. 


In youth I saw the Wise Men ot 
the East, 

Magalath and Pangalath and Sar- 
acen, 

Who followed the bright star, but 
home returned 

For fear of Herod by another 
way. 

Oh shining worlds above me! in 
what deep 

Recesses of your realms of mys- 
tery 830 

Lies hidden now that star? and 
where are they 

That brought the gifts of frankin- 
cense and myrrh? 


HELEN. 
The Nazarene still liveth. 


SIMON. 


We have heard 

His name in many towns, but have 
not seen Him. 

He flits before us; tarries not; is 
gone 

When we approach, like something 
unsubstantial, 

Made of the air, and fading into 
By hig, 

He is at Nazareth, He is at Nain, 

Or at the Lovely Village on the 
Lake, 

Or sailing on its waters. 


HELEN. 


So say those 
Who do not wish to find Him. 


SIMON. 
Can this be 
The King of Israel, whom the Wise 
Men worshipped ? 842 
Or does He fear to meet me? It 
would seem so, 
We should soon learn which of us 
twain usurps 
The titles of the other, as thou 
sayest. 


They go down. 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


509 





THE THIRD PASSOVER 


I 
THE ENTRY INTO JERUSALEM 


THE SYRO-PHGNICIAN WOMAN 
and her DAUGHTER on the 
house-top at Jerusalem. 


THE DAUGHTER, singing. 


BLIND Bartimeus at the gates 

Of Jericho in darkness waits ; 

He hears the crowd ;— he hears a 
breath 

Say, It is Christ of Nazareth! 

And calls, in tones of agony, 

"Ingov, eAénjadv pe! 

The thronging multitudes  in- 
crease: 

Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace! 

But still, above the noisy crowd, 

The beggar’s ery is shrill and loud; 

Until they say, He calleth thee! 11 


Odpoet * éyetpar, pwvet ve! 


Then saith the Christ, as silent 
stands 

The crowd, What wilt thou at my 
hands ? 

And he replies, Oh, give me light! 

Rabbi, restore the blind man’s 
sight! 

And Jesus answers, ’Yraye * 

‘H riotis gov gécwke oe / 


Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see, 
In darkness and in misery, 20 
Recall those mighty voices three, 
Inaod, €Adenoov pe / 

@Odpoer* Eyecpar, traye ! 

‘H riotis gov géowKé ce! 


THE MOTHER. 
Thy faith hath saved thee! 
how true that is! 

For I had faith; and when the 
Master came 

Into the coasts of Tyre and Sidon, 
fleeing 


Ah, 


From those who sought to slay 
Him, I went forth 

And cried unto Him, saying: Have 
mercy on me, 

O Lord, thou Son of David! for 


my daughter 30 

Is grievously tormented with a 
devil. 

But He passed on, and answered 
not a word. 

And his disciples said, beseeching 
Him: 

Send her away! She crieth after 


us! 

And then the Master answered 
them and said: 

I am not sent but unto the lost 
sheep 


Of the House of Israel! Then I 
worshipped Him, 
Saying: Lord, help me! And He 


answered me, 

It is not meet to take the children’s 
bread 

And cast it unto dogs! 
Lord, I said; 

And yet the dogs may eat the 
crumbs which fall 

From off their master’s table; and 
He turned, 

And answered me; and said to 
me: O woman, 

Great is thy faith; then be it unte 
thee 

Even as thou wilt. 
very hour 

Thou wast made whole, my dar- 
ling! my delight! 


ion 


And from that 


THE DAUGHTER. 


There came upon my dark and 
troubled mind 

A calm, as when the tumult of the 
city 

Suddenly ceases, and I lie and hear 

The silver trumpets of the Temple 
blowing 50 

Their welcome to the Sabbath. 
Still I wonder. 

That one who was so far away 
from me, 


510 


And could not see me, by his 
thought alone 

Had power to heal me. 
could see Him! 


Oh that I 


THE MOTHER. 


Perhaps thou wilt; for I have 
brought thee here 

To keep the holy Passover, and 
lay 

Thine offering of thanksgiving on 
the altar. 

Thou mayst both see and hear 
Him. Hark! 


VOICES afar off. 
Hosanna! 


THE DAUGHTER. 

A crowd comes pouring through 
the city gate! 59 

O mother, look! 


VOICES in the street. 


Hosanna to the Son 
Of David! 


THE DAUGHTER. 

A great multitude of people 

Fills all the street; and riding on 
an ass 

Comes one of noble aspect, like a 
king! 

The people spread their garments 
in the way, 

And seatter branches of the palm- 
trees! 


VOICES. 
Blessed 
Is He that cometh in the name of 
the Lord; 
Hosanna in the highest! 
OTHER VOICES. 
Who is this? 


VOICES. 
Jesus of Nazareth! 


THE DAUGHTER. 
Mother, it is He! 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 


VOICES. 


He hath called Lazarus of Beth- 
any 

Out of his grave, and raised him 
from the dead ! 70 

Hosanna in the highest! 


PHARISEES. 


Ye perceive 
That nothing we prevail. Behuld, 
the world 
Is all gone after him! 


THE DAUGHTER. 


What majesty, 
What power is in that careworn 
countenance ! 
What sweetness, what compas- 
sion! Ino longer 
Wonder that He hath healed me! 


VOICES. 


Peace in heaven, 
And glory in the highest ! 


PHARISEES. 


Rabbi! Rabbi! 
Rebuke thy followers ! 


CHRISTUS, 


Should they hold their peace 
The very stones beneath us would 
cry out! 


' THE DAUGHTER. 


Allhath passed by me like a dream 
of wonder ! _ 80 

But I have seen Him, and have 
heard his voice, 

And I am Satisfied! 
more ! 


I ask no 


II 
SOLOMON’S PORCH 


GAMALIEL THE SCRIBE, 


When Rabban Simeon, upon whom 
be peace! 

Taught in these Schools, 
boasted that his pen 


he 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


he, 


Had written no word that he 
could call his own, 

But wholly and always had been 
consecrated 

To the transcribing of the Law 
and Prophets. 

He used to say, and never tired of 
saying, 

The world itself was built upon 
the Law. 

And ancient Hillel said, that who- 
soever go 

Gains a good name, gains some- 
thing for himself, 

But he who gains a knowledge of 
the Law 

Gains everlasting life. 
spake truly. 

Great is the Written Law; but 
greater still 

The Unwritten, the Traditions of 
the Elders, 

The lovely words of Levites, spo- 
ken first 

To Moses on the Mount, and 
handed down 

From mouth to mouth, in one un- 
broken sound 

And sequence of divine author- 
ity, 

The voice of God resounding 
through the ages. 100 


And they 


The Written Law is water; the 
Unwritten 

Is precious wine; the Written 
Law is salt, 

The Unwritten costly spice; the 
Written Law 

Is but the body; the Unwritten, 
the soul 

That quickens it and makes it 
breathe and live. 

I can remember, many years ago, 

A little bright-eyed school-boy, a 
mere stripling, 

Son ofa Galilean carpenter, 

From Nazareth, I think, who 
came one day 

And sat here in the Temple with 
the Scribes, 110 


SII 

Hearing us speak, and asking 
many questions, 

And we were all astonished at his 
quickness. 

And when his mother came, and 
said: Behold 

Thy father and I have sought 
thee, sorrowing; 

He looked as one astonished, and 
made answer, 

How is it that ye sought me? 
Wist ye not 

That I must be about my Father’s 
business ? 

Often since then I see him here 
among us, 

Or dream I see him, with his up- 
raised face 

Intent and eager, and I often 
wonder 120 

Unto what manner of manhood 
he hath grown! 

Perhaps a poor mechanic like his 
father, 

Lost in his little Galilean village 
And toiling at his craft, to die un- 
known 
And be no more 

among men. 


remembered 


CHRISTUS in the outer court. 


The Scribes and Pharisees sit in 
Moses’ seat; 

All, therefore, whatsoever they 
command you, 

Observe and do; but follow not 
their works ; 

They say and donot. They bind 
heavy burdens 

And very grievous to be borne, 
and lay them 130 

Upon men’s shoulders, but they 
move them not 

With so much as a finger! 


GAMALIEL, looking forth. 


Who is this 
Exhorting in the outer courts so 
loudly ? 





512 CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 
CHRISTUS. Samaritan, and hath an unclean 

Their works they do for to be seen spirit! 

of men. 
They make broad their phylacter- CHEIS2 US: 

ies, and enlarge Woe unto you, ye Scribes and 
The borders of their garments, Pharisees, 

and they love Ye hypocrites! ye compass sea 
The uppermost rooms at feasts, and land 


and the chief seats 

In Synagogues, and greetings in 
the markets, 

And to be called of all men Rabbi, 
Rabbi! 


GAMALIEL. 
Itis that loud and turbulent Gali- 
lean, 140 
That came here at the Feast of 
Dedication, 
And stirred the people up to 
break the Law! 


CHRISTUS. 


Woe unto you, ye Scribes and 
Pharisees, 

Ye hypocrites! for ye shut up the 
kingdom 

Of heaven, and neither go ye in 
yourselves 

Nor suffer them that are entering 
to go in! 


GAMALIEL. 


How eagerly the people throng 
and listen, 

As if his ribald words were words 
of wisdom! 


CHRISTUS. 


Woe unto you, ye Scribes and 
Pharisees, 

Ye hypocrites! for ye devour the 
houses 150 

Of widows, and for pretence ye 
make long prayers ; 

Therefore shall ye receive the 
more damnation. 


GAMALIEL. 


This brawler is no Jew,—he isa 
vile 


To make one proselyte, and when 
he is made 

Ye make him twofold more the 
child of hell 

Than you yourselves are! 


GAMALIEL. 


O my father’s father! 
Hillel of blessed memory, hear and 
judge! 160 


CHRISTUS. 


unto you, ye Scribes and 

Pharisees, 

Ye hypocrites! for ye pay tithe 
of mint, 

Of anise, and of cumin, and omit 

The weightier matters of the law 
of God, 

Judgment and faith and mercy ; 
and all these 

Ye ought to have done, nor leave 

undone the others! 


Woe 


GAMALIEL. 
O Rabban Simeon! how must thy 
bones 
Stirin their grave to hear such 
blasphemies! 
CHRISTUS. 


Woe unto you, ye Scribes and 
Pharisees, 

Ye hypocrites! for ye make clean 
and sweet 170 

The outside of the cup and of the 
platter, 

But they within are full of all ex: 
cess ! 


GAMALIEL. 


Patience of God! canst thou er 
dure so long? 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


513 





Or art thou deaf, or gone upona | Of Zacharias, son of Barachias, 


journey ? 


CHRISTUS, 


Woe unto you, ye Scribes and 
Pharisees, 

Ye hypocrites! for ye are very like 

To whited sepulchres, which in- 
deed appear 

Beautiful outwardly, but are with- 
in 

Filled full of dead men’s bones 
and all uncleanness ! 


GAMALIEL. 


Am I awake? Is this Jerusa- 
lem? 180 

And are these Jews that throng 
and stare and listen? 


CHRISTUS. 


Woe unto you, ye Scribes and 
Pharisees, 

Ye hypocrites! because ye build 
the tombs 

Of prophets, and adorn the sepul- 
chres 

Of righteous men, and say: If we 
had lived 

When lived our fathers, we would 
not have been 

Partakers with them in the blood 
of Prophets. 

So ye be witnesses unto’ your- 
selves, 

That ye are children of them that 
killed the Prophets! 

Fill ye up then the measure of 
your fathers. 190 

I send unto you Prophets and 
Wise Men, 

And Scribes, and some ye crucify, 
and some 

Scourge in your Synagogues, and 
persecute 

From city to city; that on you 
may come 

The righteous blood that hath 
been shed on earth, 

From the blood of righteous Abel 
to the blood 


Ye slew between the Temple and 
the altar! 


GAMALIEL, 


Oh, had I here my subtle dialecti- 
cian, 

My little Saul of Tarsus, the tent- 
maker, 200 

Whose wit is sharper than his 
needle’s point, 

He would delight to foil this noisy 
wrangler ! 


CHRISTUS. 


Jerusalem! Jerusalem! O thou 

That killest the Prophets, and that 
stonest them 

Which are sent unto thee, how 
often would I 

Have gathered together thy chil- 
dren, as a hen 

Gathereth her chickens under. 
neath her wing, 

And ye would not! 
house is left 

Unto you desolate! 


Behold, your 


THE PEOPLE. 


This is a Prophet! 
This is the Christ that was to 
come ! 210 


GAMALIEL. 


Ye fools! 
Think ye, shall Christ come out of 
Galilee? 


Ill 


LORD, IS IT I? 


CHRISTUS. 
One of you shall betray me. 


THE DISCIPLES. 
Is it 1? 
Lord, is it 1? 
CHRISTUS. 
One of the Twelve it is 


514 


——— 


That dippeth with me in this dish 
his hand ; 


He shall betray me. Lo, the Son 
of Man 

Goeth indeed as it is written of 
Him; 

But woe shall be unto that man by 
whom 

He is betrayed! Good were it for 
that man 


If he had ne’er been born! 


JUDAS ISCARIOT, 
Lord, is it 1? 


CHRISTUS. 


Ay, thou hast said. And that thou 
doest, do quickly. 220 


JUDAS ISCARIOT, going out. 
Ah, woe is me! 


CHRISTUS. 


All ye shall be offended 

Because of me this night; for it is 
written: 

Awake, O sword against my shep- 
herd! Smite 

The shepherd, saith the Lord of 
hosts, and scattered 

shall be the sheep! — But after I 
am risen 

I go before you into Galilee. 


PETER. 


O Master! though all men shall 
be offended 
Because of thee, yet will not I be! 


CHRISTUS. 
Simon, 
Behold how Satan hath desired to 
have you, 


That he may sift you as one sift- 
eth wheat! 230 

Whither I go thou canst not follow 
me — 


Not now; but thou shalt follow 


me hereafter. 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





PETER. 

Wherefore can I not follow thee? 
I am ready 

To go with thee to prison and to 
death. 


CHRISTUS. 


Verily say I unto thee, this night, 
Ere the cock crow, thou shalt deny 
me thrice ! 


PETER. 


Though I should die, yet will I not 
deny thee. 


CHRISTUS. 


When first I sent you forth with- 
out a purse, 

Or scrip, or shoes, did ye lack any- 
thing ? 239 


THE DISCIPLES. 
Not anything. 


CHRISTUS. 


But he that hath a purse, 

Now let him take it, and likewise 
his serip; , 

And he that hath no sword, let 
him go sell 

His clothes and buy one. That 
which hath been written 

Must be accomplished now: He 
hath poured out 

His soul even unto death; he hath 
been numbered 

With the transgressors, and him- 
self hath borne 

The sin of many, and made inter. 
cession 

For the transgressors. 
have an end 

The things concerning me. 


And here 


PETER. 


Behold, O Lord 
Behold, here are two swords! 


CHRISTUS. | 
It is enough 


THE: DIVINE TRAGEDY 





IV 
THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE 


CHRISTUS. 


My spirit is exceeding sorrowful 
Even unto death! Tarry ye here 


and watch. 252 
He goes apart. 
PETER, 
Under this ancient olive-tree, that 
spreads 
Its broad centennial branches like 


a tent, 
Let us lie down and rest. 


JOHN. 
What are those torches, 


That glimmer on Brook Kedron: 


there below us ? 


JAMES. 


It is some marriage feast ; the joy- 
ful maidens 
Go out to meet the bridegroom. 


PETER. 


Iam weary. 
The struggles of this day have 
overcome me. 
They sleep. 


CHRISTUS, falling on his face. 


Father! all things are possible to 
thee, — 260 

Oh let this cup pass -from me! 
Nevertheless 

Not as I will, but as thou wilt, be 
done! 


Returning to the Disciples. 


What! could ye not watch with me 
for one hour? 

Oh watch and pray, that ye may 
enter not: 

Into temptation. 
indeed 

Is willing, but the flesh is weak! 


For the spirit 


JOHN. 
Alas! 


575 





It is for sorrow that our eyes are 


heavy. — 

I see again the glimmer of those 
torches , 

Among the olives; they are com- 
ing hither. 

JAMES. 

Outside the garden wall the path 

divides ; 270 


Surely they come not hither. 
They sleep again. 


CHRISTUS, as before. 


O my Father! 
If this cup may not pass away 
from me, 
Except I drink of it, thy will be 
done. 
Returning to the Disciples. 
Sleep on; and take your rest! 


JOHN. 


Beloved Master, 
Alas! we know not what to an- 
swer thee! 
It is for sorrow that our eyes are 
heavy. — 
Behold, the torches now encom. 
pass us. 


JAMES. 


They do but go about the garden 
wail, 
Seeking for some one, or for some- 
thing lost. 
They sleep again. 


CHRISTUS, as before. 
If this cup may not pass away 


from me; 280 
Except I drink of it, thy will be 
done. 


Returning to the Disciples. 
It is enough! Behold, the Son of 
Man 
Hath been betrayed into the hands 
of sinners! 
The hour is come. 
be going; 
For he that shall betray me is at 
hand, 


Rise up, let us 


516 


JOHN. 
Ah me! See, from his forehead, 
in the torehlight, 
Great drops of blood are falling to 
the ground! 


PETER. 
What lights are these? What 
torches glare and glisten 
Upon the swords and armor of 


these men? 
And there among them Judas Is- 
cariot! 290 


He smites the servant of the High- 
Priest with his sword. 


CHRISTUS. 


Put up thy sword into its sheath; 
for they 

That take the sword shall perish 
with the sword. 

The cup my Father hath given me 
to drink, 

Shall [not drinkit? Think’st thou 
that I cannot 

Pray to my Father, and that He 
shall give me 

More than twelve legions of angels 
presently ? 


JUDAS to CHRISTUS, kissing him. 
Hail, Master! hail! 


CHRISTUS. 


Friend, wherefore art thou come? 
Whom seek ye? 


CAPTAIN OF THE TEMPLE. 
Jesus of Nazareth. 


CHRISTUS. 
Tam he. 
Are ye come hither as against a 
thief, 
With swords*and staves to take 
me? When I daily 300 
Was with you in the Temple, ye 
stretched forth 
No hands to take me! 
your hour, 
And this the vower of darkness. 
If ye seek 


But this is 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 


Me only, let these others go their 

way. 

The Disciples depart. CHRISTUS 
is bound and led away. A cer- 
tain young man follows Him, 
having a linen cloth cast about 
his body. They lay hold of him, 
and the young man flees from 
them naked. 


Vv 
THE PALACE OF CAIAPHAS 


PHARISEES. 


What do we? Clearly something 
must we do, 

For this man worketh many mira- 
cles. 


CAIAPHAS. 


I am informed that he is a me- 
chanic ; 

A carpenter’s son; a Galilean 
peasant, : 

Keeping disreputable company. 


PHARISEES. 


The people say that here in Beth- 
any 310 

He hath raised up a certain Laz- 
arus, 

Who had been dead three days. 


CAIAPHAS. 


Impossible! 

There is no resurrection of the 
dead; 

This Lazarus should be taken, anc 
put to death 

Asan impostor. If this Galilean 

Would be content to stay in Gali 
lee, 

And preach in country towns, I 
should not heed him. 

But when he comes up to Jerusa- 
lem 

Riding in triumph, as I am in. 
formed, 

And drives the money - changers 
from the Temple, 324 

That is another matter. 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


517 





PHARISEES. 
If we thus 
Let him alone, all will believe on 
him, 
And then the Romans come and 
take away 
Our place and nation. 


CAIAPHAS., 


Ye know nothing at all. 

Simon Ben Camith, my great pre- 
decessor, 

On whom be peace! would have 
dealt presently 

With such a demagogue. I shall 
no less. 

The man must die. 
sider not 

It is expedient that one man should 
die, 

Not the whole nation perish? 
What is death ? 330 

It differeth from sleep but in dura- 


Do ye con- 


tion. 

We sleep and wake again; an hour 
or two 

Later or earlier, and it matters 
not, 

And if we never wake it matters 
not; 

When we are in our graves we are 
at peace, 

Nothing can wake us or disturb 
us more. 


There is no resurrection. 


PHARISEES, aside, 


O most faithful 
Disciple of Hircanus Maccabeus, 
Will nothing but complete anni- 
hilation 
Comfort and satisfy thee ? 


CAIAPHAS, 


While ye are talking 
And plotting, and contriving how 
to take him, 341 
Fearing the people, and so doing 
naught, 
J, who fear not the people, have 
been acting ; 


Have taken this Prophet, this 
young Nazarene, 

Who by Beelzebub the Prince of 
devils 

Casteth out devils, and doth raise 
the dead, 

That might as well be dead, and 
left in peace. 

Annas my father-in-law hath sent 
him hither. 

I hear the guard. Behold your 
Galilean ! 

CHRISTUS is brought in bound. 


SERVANT, in the vestibule. 
Why art thou up so late, my pretty 


damsel? 350 
DAMSEL. 
Why art thou up so early, pretty 
man? 


It is not cock-crow yet, and art 
thou stirring ? 


SERVANT. 
What brings thee here ? 


DAMSEL. 
What brings the rest of you? 


SERVANT. 
Come here and warm thy hands. 


DAMSEL to PETER. 


Art thou not also 
One of this man’s disciples? 


PETER, 
I am not, 
DAMSEL, 
Now surely thou art also one of 
them ; 
Thou art a Galilean, and thy 
' speech 
Bewrayeth thee. 
PETER. 


Woman, I know him not! 


518 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





CAIAPHAS to CHRISTUS in the 


Hall. 
Who art thou? Tell us plainly of 
thyself 
And of thy doctrines, and of thy 
disciples. 360 
CHRISTUS. 
Lo, I have spoken openly to the 
world, 
I have taught ever in the Syna- 
gogue, 


And in the Temple, where the 
Jews resort; 
secret have said nothing. 
Wherefore then 
Askest thou me of this? Ask them 
that heard me 
What I have said to them. Be- 
hold, they know 
What I have said! 


In 


OFFICER, striking him. 


What, fellow! answerest thou 
The High-Priest so? 


CHRISTUS. 

If I have spoken evil, 

Bear witness of the evil; but if well, 
Why smitest thou me? 


CAIAPHAS. 


Where are the witnesses? 
Let them say what they know. 


THE TWO FALSE WITNESSES. 


We heard him say: 
I will destroy this Temple bres 
with hands, 
And will within three days build 
up another 
Made without hands. 


SCRIBES and PHARISEES. 


He is o’erwhelmed with shame 
And cannot answer ! 


CAIAPHAS, 


Dost thou answer nothing? 
What is this thing they witness 
here against thee? 


SCRIBES and PHARISEES. 
He holds his peace. 


CAIAPHAS. 


Tell us, art thou the Christ? 
I do adjure thee by the living God, 
Tell us, art thou indeed the Christ? 


CHRISTUS. 
Tam, 
Hereafter shall ye see the Son of 
Man 38a 
Sit on the right hand of the power 
of God, 
And come in clouds of heaven! 


CAIAPHAS, rending his clothes. 


It is enough. 
He hath spoken blasphemy! What 
further need 
Have we of witnesses ? 
have heard 
His blasphemy. What think ye? 
Is he guilty? 


Now ye 


SCRIBES and PHARISEES. 
Guilty of death! 


KINSMAN OF MALCHUS to PETER, 
in the vestibule. 


Surely I know thy face, 
Did I not see thee in the garden 
with him? 


PETER, 


How couldst thousee me? Iswear 
unto thee 

I do not know this man of whom 
ye speak! 

The cock crows. 

Hark! the cock crows! That sor- 
rowful, pale face 390 

Seeks for me in the crowd, and 
looks at me, 

As if He would remind me of those 
words: 

Ere the cock crow thou shalt deny 
me thrice! 

Goes out weeping. CHRISTUS ts 

blindfolded and buffeted. 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


519 





AN OFFICER, striking him with 
his palm. 


Prophesy unto us, thou Christ, 
thou Prophet! 
Who is it smote thee? 
CAIAPHAS. 
Lead him unto Pilate! 


VI 
PONTIUS PILATE 


PILATE. 


Wholly incomprehensible to me, 
Vainglorious, obstinate, and given 


up 
To unintelligible old traditions, 
And proud, and self-conceited are 
these Jews! 
Not long ago, I marched the legions 


down 400 

From Czesarea to their winter- 
quarters 

Here in Jerusalem, with the effi- 
gies 

Of Cesar on their ensigns, and a 
tumult 

Arose among these Jews, because 
their Law 


Forbids the making of all images! 

They threw themselves upon the 
ground with wild 

Expostulations, bared their necks, 
and cried 

That they would sooner die than 
have their Law 

Infringed in any manner; as if 


Numa 
Were not as great as Moses, and 
the Laws 410 
Of the Twelve Tables as their 
Pentateuch! 


And then, again, when I desired to 
span 

Their valley with an aqueduct, 
and bring 

A rushing river in to wash the city 

And its inhabitants, — they all re- 
belled 


As if they had been herds of un- 
washed swine! 

Thousands and thousands of them 
got together 

And raised so great a clamor 
round my doors, 

That, fearing violent outbreak, I 
desisted, 

And left them to their wallowing 
in the mire. 420 


And now here comes the reverend 
Sanhedrim 

Of lawyers, priests, and Scribes 
and Pharisees, 

Like old and toothless mastiffs, 
that can bark 

But cannot bite, howling their 
accusations 

Against a mild enthusiast, who 
hath preached 

I know not what new doctrine, 
being King 


.Of some vague kingdom in the 


other world, 

That hath no more to do with 
Rome and Ceesar 

Than I have with the patriarch 
Abraham ! 429 

Finding this man to be a Galilean 

I sent him straight to Herod, and 
I hope 

Thatis the last of it; but if itbenot, 


I still have power to pardon and 


release him, 

As is the custom at the Passover, 

And so aecommodate the matter 
smoothly, 

Seeming to yield to them, yet sav- 
ing him; 

A prudent and sagacious policy 

For Roman Governors in the Pro- 
vinces. 


Incomprehensible, fanatic people? 

Ye have a God, who seemeth like 
yourselves 440 

Incomprehensible, dwelling apart, 

Majestic, cloud - encompassed, 
clothed in darkness! 

One whom ye fear, but love not: 
yet ye have 


520 


No Goddesses to soften your stern 
lives, 

And make you tender unto human 
weakness, 

While we of Rome have every- 
where around us 

Our amiable divinities, that haunt 

The woodlands, and the waters, 
and frequent 

Our households, with their sweet 
and gracious presence ! 

I will go in, and while these Jews 
are wrangling, 450 

Read my Ovidius on the Art of 
Love. 


Vil 
BARABBAS IN PRISON 


BARABBAS, fo his fellow-prisoners., 


Barabbas is my name, 

Barabbas, the Son of Shame, 
Is the meaning I suppose ; 

I’m no better than the best, 

And whether worse than the rest 
Of my fellow-men, who knows? 


I was once, to say it in brief, 
A highwayman, a robber-chief, 
In the open light of day. 
So much I am free to confess; 
But all men, more or less, 
Are robbers in their way. 


460 


From my cavern in the crags, 
From my lair of leaves and flags, 
I could see, like ants, below, 
The camels with their load 
Of merchandise, on the road 
That leadeth to Jericho. 


And I struck them unaware, 
AS an eagie from the air 
Drops down upon bird or beast ; 
And I had my heart’s desire 
Of the merchants of Sidon and 
Tyre, 
And Damascus and the East. 


470 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





But it is not for that I fear; 
It is not for that Iam here 
In these iron fetters bound; 
Sedition ! that is the word 
That Pontius Pilate heard, 
And he liketh not the sound. 


48a 


What think ye, would he care 

For a Jew Slain here or there, 
Or a plundered caravan? 

But Czesar!— ah, that is a crime, 

To the uttermost end of time 
Shall not be forgiven to man. 


Therefore was Herod wroth 
With Matthias Margaloth, 

And burned him for a show! 4,9 
Therefore his wrath did smite 
Judas the Gaulonite, 

And his followers, as ye know. 


For that cause and no more, 
Am I here, as I said before; 
For one unlucky night, 
Jucundus, the captain of horse, 
Was upon us with all his foree, 
And I was caught in the fight. 


I might have fled with the rest, 

But my dagger was in the breast 
Of a Roman equerry ; 502 

As we rolled there in the street, 

They bound me, hands and feet; 
And this is the end of me. 


Who eares for death? NotI! 
A thousand times I would die, 
Rather than suffer wrong! 
Already those women of mine 
Are mixing the myrrh and the 
wine; 510 
I shall not be with you long. 


Vill 


ECCE HOMO 


PILATE, on the tessellated pave. 
ment in front of his palace. 
Ye have brought unto me this man, 

as one 


THE ‘DIVINE TRAGEDY 





— 


Who doth pervert the people; and 
behold! 

I have examined him, and found 
no fault 

Touching the things whereof ye 
do accuse him. 

No, nor yet Herod; for I sent you 
to him, 

And nothing worthy of death he 
findeth in him. 

Ye have a custom at the Pass- 
over, 

That one condemned to death shall 
be released. 

Whom will ye, then, that I release 
to you? 520 

Jesus Barabbas, called the Son of 
Shame, 

Or Jesus, Son of Joseph, called the 
Christ ? 


THE PEOPLE, shouting. 
Not this man, but Barabbas! 


PILATE. 
What then will ye 
That I should do with him that is 
called Christ? 


THE PEOPLE. 
-Crucify him! 


PILATE. 


Why, what evil hath he done? 

Lo, I have found no cause of death 
in him; 

I will chastise him, and then let 
him go. 


THE PEOPLE, more vehemently. 
Crucify him! crucify him! 


A MESSENGER, to PILATE. 


Thy wife sends 

This message to thee, — Have thou 
naught to do 

With that just man; for I this day 

in dreams 530 

Have suffered many things be- 
cause of him. 


52 





PILATE, aside. 


The Gods speak to us in our 
dreams! I tremble 
At what I have to do! O Claudia, 
How shall I save him? Yet one 
effort more, 
Or he must perish! 
Washes his hands before them. 


I am innocent 
Of the blood of this just person; 
see ye to it! 


THE PEOPLE. 


Let his blood be on us and on our 
children! 


VOICES, within the palace. 
Put on thy royal robes ; put on thy 
crown, 
And take thy sceptre! 
King of the Jews! 


Hail, thou 


PILATE. 
I bring him forth to you, that ye 
may know 540 
I find no fault in him. Behold the 


man! 


CHRISTUS is led in with the pur- 
ple robe and crown of thorns. 


CHIEF PRIESTS and OFFICERS. 
Crucify him! crucify him! 


PILATE. 
Take ye him; 
I find no fault in him. 


CHIEF PRIESTS. 


We have a Law, 
And by our Law he ought to die; 
because 
He made himself to be the Son of 
God. 


PILATE, aside. 


Ah! there are Sons of God, and 
demi-gods 

More than ye know, ye ignorant 
High-Priests ! 


522 


To CHRISTUS. 
Whence art thou? 


CHIEF PRIESTS. 
Crucify him! crucify him! 


PILATE, to CHRISTUS. 


Dost thou not answer me? 
thou not know 

That I have power enough to crn- 
cify thee? 550 

That I have also power to set thee 
free ? 


Dost 


CHRISTUS. 


Thou couldest have no power at 
all against me 

Except that it were given thee 
from above; 

Therefore hath he that sent me 
unto thee 

The greater sin. 


CHIEF PRIESTS. 
Tf thou let this man go, 
Thou art not Czesar’s friend. For 
whosoever 
Maketh himself a King, speaks 
against Czesar. 
PILATE. 
Ye Jews, behold your King! 


CHIEF PRIESTS. 
Away with him! 
Crucify him! 
PILATE. 
Shall I crucify your King? 


CHIEF PRIESTS. 
We have no King but Cesar! 


PILATE. 


Take him, then, 

Take him, ye cruel and _ blood- 

thirsty Priests, 561 

More merciless than the plebeian 
mob, 


Who pity and spare the fainting: 


gladiator 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





Blood-stained in Roman amphi 
theatres, — 

Take him, and crucify him if ye 
will; 

But if the immortal Gods do ever 
mingle 

With the affairs of mortals, which 
I doubt not, 

And hold the attribute of justice 


dear, 

They will commission the Eumen- 
ides 

To seatter you to the four winds 
of heaven, 570 

Exacting tear for tear, and blood 
for blood. 


Here, take ye this inscription, 
Priests, and nail it 

Upon the cross, above your vic- 
tim’s head: 

Jesus of Nazareth, 
Jews. 


King of the 


CHIEF PRIESTS. 
Nay, we entreat! write not, the 
King of the Jews; 
But that he said: I am the King 


of the Jews! 
PILATE. 
Enough. What I have written, I 


have written. 


IX 
ACELDAMA 


JUDAS ISCARIOT. 


Lost! lost! Forever lost! I have 
betrayed 

The innocent blood! 
thou art love, 

Why didst thou leave me naked to 
the tempter ? 58a 

Why didst thou not commission 
thy swift lightning 

To strike me dead? or why did J 
not perish 

With those by Herod slain, the in 
nocent children 


O God! if 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


Who went with playthings in their 
little hands 
Inte the darkness of the other 


world, 

Asif to bed? Or wherefore was I 
born, 

If thou in thy foreknowledge didst 
perceive 

All that I am, and all that I must 
be? 

I know I am not generous, am not 
gentle, 

Like other men; but I have ae 
to be, 


And I have failed. I thought if 
following Him 

I should grow like Him; but the 
unclean spirit 

That from my childhood up hath 
tortured me 

Hath been too cunning and too 
strong for me. 

Am ito blame for this? Am TI to 
blame 

Because I cannot love, and ne’er 
have known 

The love of woman or the love of 
children ? 

it is a curse and a fatality, 

A mark, that hath been set upon 
my forehead, 

That none shall slay me, for it 
were a mercy 600 

That I were dead, or never had 
been born. 


Too late! ! too late! I shall not see 
* Him more 

Among the living. That sweet, 
patient face 

Will never more rebuke me, nor 
those lips 

Repeat the words: One of you 
shall betray me! 


It stung me into madness. How 
I loved, 

Yet hated Him! But in the other 
world! 

J will be there before Him, and 
will wait 


B35 


Until he comes, and fall down on 
my knees 

And kiss his feet, imploring par- 
don, pardon! 610 


I heard Him say: All sins shall 
be forgiven, 

Except the sin against the Holy 
Ghost. 

That shall not be forgiven in this 
world, 

Nor in the world to come. 
my sin? 

Have I offended so there is no 
hope 

Here nor hereafter? That I soon 
shall know. 

O God, have mercy! 
mercy on me! 


Throws himself headlong from 
the cliff. 


Is that 


Christ have 


x 
THE THREE CROSSES 


MANAHEM, THE ESSENIAN. 


Three crosses in this noonday 
night uplifted, 

Three human figures that in mor- 
tal pain 

Gleam white against the super- 
natural darkness; 620 

Two thieves, that writhe in torture, 
and between them 

The Suffering Messiah, the Son of 
Joseph, 

Ay, the Messiah Triumphant, Son 
of David! 

A crown of thorns on that dishon- 
ored head! 

Those hands that healed the sick 
now pierced with nails, 
Those feet that wandered !ome- 
less through the world 
Now crossed and bleeding, and at 

rest forever! 
And the three faithful ‘aries, 
overwhelmed 


524 


CHRISTUS: A ‘MYSTERY 





By this great sorrow, kneeling, 
praying, weeping! 

O Joseph Caiaphas, thou great 
High-Priest, 630 

How wilt thou answer for this 
deed of blood? 


SCRIBES and ELDERS. 

Thou that destroyest the Temple, 
and dost build it 

In three days, save thyself; and if 
thou be 

The Son of God, come down now 
from the cross. 


CHIEF PRIESTS. 
Others he saved, himself he cannot 
Save! 
Let Christ the King of Israel de- 
seend 
That we may see and believe! 


SCRIBES and ELDERS. 


In God he trusted ; 
Let Him deliver him, if He will 
have him, 
And we will then believe. 


CHRISTUS. 
Father! forgive them; 
They know not what they do. 
THE IMPENITENT THIEF. 


If thou be Christ, 
Oh save thyself and us! 


THE PENITENT THIEF. 


Remember me, 
Lord, when thou comest into thine 


own kingdom. 642 
CHRISTUS. 
This day shalt thou be with me in 
Paradise. 
MANAHEM. 


Golgotha! Golgotha! Oh the pain 
and darkness} 

Ob the uplifted cross, that shall 
forever 


Shine through the darkness, and 
shall conquer pain 

By the triumphant memory of this 
hour! 


SIMON MAGUS. 
O Nazarene! I find thee here at 


last! 

Thou art no more a phantom unto 
me! 

This is the end of one who called 
himself 650 

The Son of God! Suchis the fate 
of those 


Who preach new doctrines. ’Tis 
not what he did, 

But what he said, hath brought 
him unto this. 

I will speak evil of no dignitaries, 

This is my hour of triumph, Naza. 
rene! 


THE YOUNG RULER, 


This is the end of him who said to 
me: 

Sell that thou hast, and give unto 
the poor! 

This is the treasure in heaven he 
promised me! 


CHRISTUS. 
Eloi, Eloi, lama sabacthani! 


A SOLDIER, preparing the hyssop. 
He calleth for Elias! 


ANOTHER. 
Nay, let be! 
See if Elias now will come to save 
him! 661 
CHRISTUS. 
I thirst. 


A SOLDIER. 

Give him the wormwood! 
CHRISTUS, with a loud cry, bow 
ing his head. 

It is finished 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 





XI 
THE TWO MARIES 


MARY MAGDALENE. 
We have arisen early, yet the sun 
O’ertakes us ere we reach the sepul- 
chre, 
To wrap the body of our blessed 
Lord 
With our sweet spices. 


MARY, MOTHER OF JAMES. 
Lo, this is the garden, 


And yonder is the sepulechre. But 
who 

Shall roll away the stone for us to 
enter ? 
MARY MAGDALENE. 

It hath been rolled away! The 


sepulchre 
Is open! Ah, who hath been here 
before us, 670 
When we rose early, wishing to be 
first? 


MARY, MOTHER OF JAMES. 
IT am affrighted! 


MARY MAGDALENE. 


Hush! I will stoop down 
And look within. There isa young 
man sitting 
On the right side, clothed in a long 
white garment! 
It is an angel! 


THE ANGEL. 


Fear not; ye are seeking 
Jesus of Nazareth, which was cru- 
cified. 
Why do ye seek the living among 
the dead ? 
He is no longer here; He is arisen! 
Come. see the place where the 


Lord lay! Remember 
How He spake unto you in Gali- 
lee, 680 


Saying: The Son of Man must be 
delivered 


525 

Into the hands of sinful men; by 
them 

Be crucified, and the third day rise 
again! 

But go your way, and say to his 
disciples, 

He goeth before you into Galilee; 

There shall ye see Him as He said 
to you. 


MARY, MOTHER OF JAMES. 
I will go swiftly for them. 


MARY MAGDALENE, alone, weep- 
ing. 
They have taken 
My Lord away from me, and now 
I know not 
Where they have laid Him! Who 
is there to tell me? 
This is the gardener. Surely he 
must know. 


CHRISTUS. 

Woman, why weepest thou? Whom 
seekest thou? 690 
MARY MAGDALENE. 

They have taken my Lord away; 
I cannot find Him. 

O Sir, if thou have borne him hence, 
I pray thee 

Tell me where thou hast laid Him. 

CHRISTUS. 
Mary! 


MARY MAGDALENE. 
Rabboni! 


XII 
YHE SEA OF GALILEE 


NATHANAEL, in the ship. 
All is now ended. 


JOHN. 


Nay, He is arisen, 
T ran unto the tomb, and stooping 
down 


526 





Looked in, and saw the linen grave- 
clothes lying, 
Yet dared not enter. 


PETER. 
I went in, and saw 
The napkin that had been about 
his head, 
Not lying with the other linen 


clothes, 
But wrapped together in a sepa- 
rate place. 700 
THOMAS. 
And I have seen Him. I have 


seen the print 

Of nails upon his hands, and thrust 
my hands 

Into his side. I know He is arisen 3 

But where are now the kingdom 
and the glory 

He promised unto us? We have 
all dreamed 

That we were princes, and we 
wake to find 

We are but fishermen. 


PETER. 
Who should have been 
Fishers of men! 
JOHN. 


We have come back again 
To the old life, the peaceful life, 


among 

The white towns of the Galilean 
lake. 710 

PETER. 

They seem to me like silent sepul- 
chres 

In the gray light of morning! The 
old life, 


Yea, the old life! for we have 
toiled all night 


And have caught nothing. 


JOHN. 


Do ye see a man 
Standing upon the beach and 
beckoning? 





CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 


*T is like an apparition. He hath 
kindled 

A fire of coals, and seems to wait 
for us. 

He ealleth. 


CHRISTUS, from the shore. 
Children, have ye any meat? 


PETER. 


Alas! We have caught nothing. 


CHRISTUS. 
Cast the net 

On the right side of the ship, and 
ye shall find. 


7290 
PETER. 
How that reminds me of the days 
gone by, 


And one who said: Launch out 
into the deep, 
And east your nets! 


NATHANAEL. 


We have but let them down 
And they are filled, so that we 
cannot draw them! 


JOHN. 
It is the Lord! 


PETER, girding his fisher’s cout 
about him. 


He said: When I am risen 
I will go before you into Galilee! 
He casts himself into the lake. 


JOHN. 


There is no fear in love; for per- 
fect love 

Casteth out fear. 
‘are men, 

Put forth your strength; we are 
not far from shore ; 

The net fs heavy, but breaks not. 
All is safe. 730 


Now then, if ye 


PETER, on the shore. 


Dear Lord! I heard thy voice and 
could not wait. 


THE DIVINE TRAGEDY 


527 





Let me behold thy face, and kiss 
thy feet! 

Thou art not dead, thou livest! 
Again I see thee. 

Pardon, dear Lord! [Lama sinful 
man; 

I have denied thee thrice. Have 
mercy on me! 


THE OTHERS, coming to land. 
Dear Lord! stay with us! cheer 
us! comfort us ! 
Lo! we again have found thee! 
Leave us not! 


CHRISTUS. 
Bring hither of the fish that ye 
have caught, 
And come and eat! 


JOHN. 
Behold! He breaketh bread 
As He was wont. From his own 
blessed hands 749 
Again we take it. 


CHRISTUS. 


Simon, son of Jonas, 
Lovest thou me, more than these 
others ? 


PETER. 


Yea, 
More, Lord, than all men; even 
more than these. 
Thou knowest that I love thee. 


CHRISTUS. 


Feed my lambs. 


THOMAS, aside. 
How more than we do? He re- 
maineth ever 
Self-confident and boastful as be- 
fore. 
Nothing will cure him. 


CHRISTUS. 


Simon, son of Jonas, 
Lovest thou me? 


PETER. 


Yea, dearest Lord, I love thee. 
Thou knowest that I love thee. 


CHRISTUS. 
Feed my sheep. 


THOMAS, aside. 
Again, the selfsame question, and 
the answer 750 
Repeated with more vehemence. 
Can the Master 
Doubt if we love Him ? 


CHRISTUS. 


Simon, son of Jonas, 
Lovest thou me? 


PETER, grieved. 
Dear Lord! thou knowest all 
things. 
Thou kKnowest that I love thee. 


CHRISTUS. 
Feed my sheep. 
When thou wast young thou gird- 
edst thyself. and walkedst 
Whither thou wouldst; but when 
thou shalt be old, 
Thou shalt stretch forth thy hands, 
and other men 
Shall gird and carry thee whither 
thou wouldst not. 
Follow thou me! 


JOHN, aside. 
It is a prophecy 
Of what death he shall die. 


PETER, pointing to JOHN. 
Tell me, O Lord, 
And whaé shall this man do ? 


CHRISTUS. 
And if I will 
He tarry till I come, what is it to 
thee? 762 
Follow thou me! 


PETER. 


Yea, I will follow thee, dear Lord 
and Master | 


§28 





Will follow thee through fasting 
and temptation, 

Through .all thine agony and 
bloody sweat, 

Thy cross and passion, even unto 
death! 


EPILOGUE 
SYMBOLUM APOSTOLORUM 
PETER. 

I BELIEVE in God the Father 

Almighty; 
JOHN. 
Maker of Heaven and Earth; 


JAMES. 


And in Jesus Christ his only Son, 
our Lord; 


ANDREW. 
Who was conceived by the Holy 
Ghost, born of the Virgin 
Mary ; 
PHILIP. 


Suffered under Pontius Pilate, was 
crucified, dead, and buried; 


THOMAS. 
And the third day He rose again 
from the dead; 
BARTHOLOMEW. 
He ascended into Heaven, and sit- 
teth on the right hand of 
God, the Father Almighty ; 
MATTHEW. 


From thence He shall come to 
judge the quick and the dead. 


JAMES, THE SON OF ALPHEUS. 
I believe in the Holy Ghost ; the 
holy Catholic Church ; 
SIMON ZELOTES. 


The communion of Saints; the for- 
giveness of sins; 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 


JUDE. 
The resurrection of the body; 


MATTHIAS. 
And the Life Everlasting. 


FIRST INTERLUDE 


THE ABBOT JOACHIM 


A ROOM IN THE CONVENT OF 
FLORA IN CALABRIA. NIGHT 


JOACHIM. 

THE wind is rising; it seizes and 
shakes 

The doors and window-blinds and 
makes 

Mysterious moanings in the halls ; 

The convent-chimneys seem al- 
most 

The trumpets of some heavenly 
host, 

Setting its watch upon our walls! 

Where it listeth, there it blow- 


eth; 

We hear the sound, but no man 
knoweth 

Whence it cometh or whither it 
goeth, 

And thus it is with the Holy 
Ghost. 10 


O breath of God! O my delight 
In many a vigil of the night, 
Like the great voice in Patmos 


heard 

By John, the Evangelist of the 
Word, 

I hear thee behind me saying: 
Write 


In a book the things that thou 
hast seen, 

The things that are, and that have 
been, 

And the things that shall here. 
after be! 


This convent, on the rocky crest 
Of the Calabrian hills, to me 20 
A Patmos is wherein I rest; 


THE ABBOT JOACHIM 


529 





While round about me like a sea 

The white.mists roll, and over- 
flow 

The world that lies unseen below 

In darkness and in mystery. 

Here in the Spirit, in the vast 

Embrace of God’s encircling arm, 

Am I uplifted from all harm; 

The world seems something far 
away, 

Something belonging to the Past, 

A hostelry, a peasant’s farm, 31 

That lodged me for a night or 
day, 

In which I care not to remain, 

Nor having left, to see again. 


Thus, in the hollow of God’s hand 

I dwelt on sacred Tabor’s height, 

When as a simple acolyte 

I journeyed to the Holy Land, 

A pilgrim for my master’s sake, 

And saw the Galilean Lake, 40 

And walked through many a vil- 
lage street 

That once had echoed to his feet. 

- There first I heard the great com- 
mand, 

The voice behind me saying: 
Write! 

And suddenly my soul became 

Tilumined by a flash of flame, 

That left imprinted on my thought 

The image I in vain had sought, 

And which forever shall remain; 

As sometimes from these windows 
high, 50 

Gazing at midnight on the sky 

Black with a storm of wind and 
rain, 

I have beheld a sudden glare 

Of lightning lay the landscape 
bare, 

With tower and town and hill and 
plain 

Distinct, and burnt into my brain, 

Never to be effaced again! 


And I have written. These vol 
umes three, 
The Apocalypse, the Harmony 


Of the Sacred Scriptures, new and 
old, 60 

And the Psalter with Ten Strings, 
enfold 

Within their pages, all and each, 

The Eternal Gospel that I teach. 

Well I remember the Kingdom of 
Heaven 

Hath been likened to a little lea. 
ven 

Hidden in two measures of meal, 

Until it leavened the whole mass ; 

So likewise will it come to pass 

With the doctrines that I here 


conceal. 

Open and manifest to me 70 
The truth appears, and must be 
told; : 

All sacred mysteries are three- 

fold; 


Three Persons in the Trinity, 

Three ages of Humanity, 

And Holy Scriptures 
three, 

Of Fear, of Wisdom, and of Love; 

For Wisdom that begins in Fear 

Endeth in Love: the atmosphere 

In which the soul delights to 
be, 

And finds that perfect liberty 8c 

Which cometh only from above. 


likewise 


In the first Age, the early prime 

And dawn of all historic time, 

The Father reigned; and face tc 
face 

He spake with the primeval race. 

Bright Angels, on his errands sent, 

Sat with the patriarch in his tent; 

His prophets thundered in the 
street ; 

His lightnings flashed, his hail- 
storms beat; 

In earthquake and in flood and 
flame, go 

In tempest and in cloud He came! 

The fear of God is in his Book; 

The pages of the Pentateuch 

Are full of the terror of his name. 


530 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





Then reigned the Son; his Cove- 
nant 

Was peace on earth, good-will to 
man; 

With Him the reign of Law be- 


gan. 

He was the Wisdom and the 
Word, 

And sent his Angels Ministrant, 

Unterrified and undeterred, 100 

To rescue souls forlorn and lost, 

The troubled, tempted, tempest- 
tost, 

To heal, to comfort, and to teach. 

The fiery tongues of Pentecost 

His symbols were, that they should 
preach 

In every form of human speech, 

From continent to continent. 

He is the Light Divine, whose 
rays 

Across the thousand years un- 
spent 

Shine through the darkness of our 
days, IIo 

And touch with their celestial fires 

Our churehes and our convent 
spires. 

His Book is the New Testament. 


These Ages now are of the Past: 
And the Third Age begins at last. 
The coming of the Holy Ghost, 
The reign of Grace, the reign of 
Love 

Brightens the mountain-tops above, 
And the dark outline of the coast. 
Already the whole land is white 
With convent walls, as if by night 
A snow had fallen on hill and 


height ! 122 
Already from the streets and 
marts 


Of town and traffic, and low cares, 

Men climb the consecrated stairs 

With weary feet, and bleeding 
hearts ; 

And leave the world, and its de- 
lights, 


Its passions, struggles, and de 
spairs, : 

For contemplation and for prayers 

In cloister-cells of coenobites. 130 


Eternal benedictions rest 

Upon thy name, Saint Benedict! 

Founder of convents in the West, 

Who built on Mount Cassino’s 
crest : 

In the Land of Labor, thine eagle’s 
nest! 

May I be found not derelict 

In aught of faith or godly fear, 

If I have written, in many a page, 

The Gospel of the coming age, 

The Eternal Gospel men shall 
hear. 140 

Oh may I live resembling thee, 

And die at last as thou hast 
died: 

So that hereafter men may see, 

Within the choir, a form of air, 

Standing with arms outstretched 
in prayer, 

As one that hath been crucified ! 


My work is finished; I am strong 

In faith and hope and charity ; 

For I have written the things I 
see, 

The things that have been and 
shall be, 150 

Conscious of right, nor fearing 
wrong; 

Because I am in love with Love, 

And the sole thing I hate is Hate; 

For Hate is death; and Love is 
life, 

A peace, a splendor from above ; 

And Hate, a never-ending strife, 

A smoke, a blackness from the 
abyss 

Where unclean serpents coil and © 
hiss! 

Love is the Holy Ghost within ; 

Hate the unpardonable sin! 160 

Who preaches otherwise than this, 

Betrays his Master with a kiss! 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


533 





PART TWO 
THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


PROLOGUE 


THE SPIRE OF STRASBURG 
CATHEDRAL 


Night and storm. LUCIFER, with 
the Powers of the Air, trying to 
tear down the cross. 


LUCIFER. 


HASTEN! hasten! 

O ye Spirits! 

From its station drag the ponder- 
ous 

Cross of iron, that to mock us 

Is uplifted high in air! 


VOICES. 


Oh, we cannot! 

For around it 

All the Saints and Guardian An- 
gels 

Throng in legions to protect it; 

They defeat us everywhere! 


THE BELLS. 


Laudo Deum verum ! 
Plebem voco! 
Congrego clerum! 


LUCIFER. 


Lower! lower! 

Hover downward ! 

Seize the loud, vociferous bells, 
and 

Clashing, clanging, to the pave- 
ment 

Hurl them from their windy tower! 


VOICES. | 


All thy thunders 

Here are harmless ! 

For these bells have been anointed, 
And baptized with holy water! 
They defy our utmost power. 


THE BELLS. 
Defunctos ploro! 


Pestem fugo! 
Festa decoro! 


LUCIFER. 


Shake the casements ! 

Break the painted 

Panes, that flame with gold and 
crimson; 

Scatter them like leaves of Au 
tumn, 

Swept away before the blast! 


VOICES. 


Oh, we cannot! 

The Archangel 

Michael flames from every win- 
dow, 

With the sword of fire that drove us 

Headlong, out of heaven, aghast! 


THE BELLS. 


Funera plango! 
Fulgura frango! 
Sabbata pango! 


LUCIFER. 


Aim your lightnings 

At the oaken, 

Massive, iron-studded portals ! 
Sack the house of God, and scatter 
Wide the ashes of the dead! 


VOICES, 
Oh, we cannot! 
The Apostles 
And the Martyrs, wrapped in man. 
tles, 
Stand as warders at the entrance, 
Stand as sentinels o’erhead ! 


THE BELLS. 


Excito lentos! 
Dissipo ventos ! 
Paco cruentos ! 


LUCIFER, 


Baffled! baffled ! 

Inefficient, 

Craven spirits! leave this labor 
Unto Time, the great Destroyer’ 
Come away, ere hight is gone! 


532 


VOICES. 


Onward! onward! 

With the night-wind, 

Over field and farm and forest, 

Lonely homestead, darksome ham- 
let, 

Blighting all we breathe upon! 

They sweep away. Organ and 
Gregorian Chant. 


CHOIR. 


Nocte surgentes 
Vigilemus omnes! 


I 


THE CASTLE OF VAUTSBERG ON 
THE RHINE 


A chamber in a tower. PRINCE 
HENRY, sitting alone, ill and 
restless. Midnight. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


T cannot sleep! my fervid brain 

Calls up the vanished Past again, 

And throws its misty splendors 
deep 

Into the pallid realms of sleep! 

A breath from that far-distant 
shore 

Comes freshening ever more and 
more, 

And wafts o’er intervening seas 

Sweet odors from the Hesperides! 

A wind, that through the corridor 

Just stirs the curtain, and no more, 

And, touching the zolian strings, 

Faints with the burden that it 
brings ! 12 

Come back! ye friendships long 
departed ! 

That like o’erflowing streamlets 
started, 

And now are dwindled, one by one, 

To stony channels in the sun! 

Come back! ye friends, whose lives 
are ended, 

Yome back, with all that light at- 
tended, 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





Which seemed to darken and decay 
When ye arose and went away ! 2a 


They come, the shapes of joy and 
woe, 

The airy crowds of long ago, 

The dreams and fancies known of 
yore, 

That have been, and shall be no 
more. 

They change the cloisters of the 
night 

Into a garden of delight ; 

They make the dark and dreary 

* hours 

Open and blossom into flowers! 

I would not sleep! I love to be 

Again in their fair company ; 30 

But ere my lips can bid them stay, 

They pass and vanish quite away! 

Alas! our memories may retrace 

Each circumstance of time and 
place, 

Season and scene come back again, 

And outward things unchanged re- 
main; 

The rest we cannot reinstate ; 

Ourselves we cannot re-create, 

Nor set our souls to the same key 

Of the remembered harmony! 40 

Rest! rest! Oh, give me rest and 
peace ! 

The thought of life that ne’er shall 
cease 

Has something in it like despair, 

A weight I am too weak to bear! 

Sweeter to this afflicted breast 

The thought of never-ending rest! 

Sweeter the undisturbed and deep 

Tranquillity of endless sleep! 


A flash of lightning, out of which 
LUCIFER appears, in the garb 
of a travelling Physician. 

LUCIFER. 

All hail, Prince Henry! 


PRINCE HENRY, starting. 


Who is it speaks? 
Who and what are you? 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 





LUCIFER. 

One who seeks 

A moment’s audience with the 
Prince. 51 


PRINCE HENRY. 
When came you in? 


LUCIFER. 


A moment since. 

I found your study door unlocked, 

And thought you answered when 
I knocked. 


PRINCE HENRY, 
I did not hear you. 


LUCIFER. 


You heard the thunder ; 
It was loud enough to waken the 
dead. 
And it is not a matter of special 
wonder 
That, when God is walking over- 
head, 
You should not hear my feeble 
tread. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


What may your wish or purpose 
be? 60 


LUCIFER. 


Nothing or everything, as_ it 
pleases 

Your Highness. You behold in me 

Only a travelling Physician ; 

One of the few who have a mission 

To cure incurable diseases, 

Or those that are called so. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Can you bring 
The dead to life? 


LUCIFER. 


Yes; very nearly. 
And, what is a wiser and better 
thing, 
Can keep the living from ever 
needing 


533 





Such an unnatural, strange pro- 
ceeding, 70 


By showing conclusively and 
clearly 

That death is a stupid blunder 
merely, 


And not a necessity of our lives. 

My being here is accidental ; 

The storm, that against your case- 
ment drives, 

In the little village below waylaid 
me, 

And there I heard with a secret 

\ delight, 

Of your maladies physical and 
mental, 

Which neither astonished nor dis- 
mayed me. 

And I hastened hither, though late 
in the night, 80 

To proffer my aid! 


PRINCE HENRY, ironically. 


For this you came! 
Ah, how can I ever hope to requite 
This honor from one so erudite ? 


LUCIFER. 


The honor is mine, or will be when 
I have cured your disease. 


PRINCE HENRY. 
But not till then. 


LUCIFER. 
What is your illness ? 


PRINCE HENRY. 


It has no name. 
A smouldering, dull, perpetual 
flame, 
As in a kiln, burns in my veins, 
Sending up vapors to the head ; 
My heart has become a dull la- 
goon, go 
Which a kind of leprosy drinks 
and drains ; 
I am accounted as one who is 
dead, 
And, indeed, I think that I shall 
be soon. 


$34 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





LUCIFER. 
And has Gordonius the Divine, 
In his famous Lily of Medicine, — 
I see the book lies open before 
you, — 
No remedy potent enough to re- 
store you? 


PRINCE HENRY. 
None whatever ! 


LUCIFER. 
The dead are dead, 
And their oracles dumb, Avhen 
questionéd 


Of the new diseases that human’ 


life 100 

Evolves in its progress, rank and 
rife: 

Consult the dead upon things that 
were, 

But the living only on things that 
are. 

Have you done this, by the appli- 
ance 

And aid of doctors ? 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Ay, whole schools 
Of doctors, with their learned 
rules ; 
But the case is quite beyond their 
science. 
Even the doctors of Salern 
Send me back word they can discern 
No cure for a malady like this, rro 
Save one which in its nature is 
Impossible and cannot be! 


LUCIFER. 
That sounds oracular! 


PRINCE HENRY. 
Unendurable! 


LUCIFER. 
What is their remedy? 


PRINCE HENRY. 
You shall see; 


Writin this scroll is the mystery. : 


LUCIFER, reading. 

‘Not to be cured, yet not incura 
ble! 

The only remedy that remains 

Is the blood that flows from a 
maiden’s veins, 

Who of her own free will shall die, 

And give her life as the price of 
yours!’ 120 


That is the strangest of all cures, 

And one, I think, you will never 
try ; 

The prescription you may well 
put by, 

As something impossible to find 

Before the world itself shall end! 

And yet who knows? One cannot 
say 

That into some maiden’s brair 
that kind i 

Of madness will not find its way. 

Meanwhile permit me to recom 
mend, 

As the matter admits of no delay, 

My wonderful Catholicon, 131 

Of very subtile and magical pow- 
ers! 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Purge with your nostrums and 
drugs infernal 

The spouts and gargoyles of these 
towers, 

Not me! My faith is utterly gone 

In every power but the Power 
Supernal! 

Pray tell me, of what school are 
you? 


LUCIFER. 


Both of the Old and of the New! 
The school of Hermes Trismegis- 


tus, 
Who uttered his oracles sub- 
lime 140 


Refore the Olympiads, in the dew 

Of the early dusk and dawn of 
time, 

The reign of dateless old Hephzes 
tus ! 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


ened 


535 





As northward, from its Nubian] The perfect flower and efflores- 


springs, 

The Nile, forever new and old, 

Among the living and the dead, 

Its mighty, mystic stream has 
rolled ; 

So, starting from its 
head 

Under the lotus-leaves of Isis, 

From the dead demigods of eld, 150 

Through long, unbroken lines of 
kings 

Its course the sacred art has held, 

Unchecked, unchanged by man’s 
devices. 

This art the Arabian Geber taught, 

And in alembics, finely wrought, 

Distilling herbs and flowers, dis- 
covered 

The secret that so long had hoy- 
ered 

Upon the misty verge of Truth, 

The Elixir of Perpetual Youth, 

Called Alcohol, in the Arab 


fountain- 


speech! 160 
Like him,this wondrous lore I 
teach ! 


PRINCE HENRY. 
What! an adept? 
LUCIFER. 
Nor less, nor more! 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Tam a reader of your books, 
A lover of that mystic lore! 


With such a piercing glance it 


looks 
Into great Nature’s open eye, 
And sees within it trembling lie 
The portrait of the Deity! 
And yet, alas! with all my pains, 
The secret and the mystery 170 
Have baffled and eluded me, 
Unseen the grand result remains! 


LUCIFER, showing a flask. 
Behold it here! this little flask 
Contains ‘the wonderful quintes- 

sence, 


cence, 
Of all the knowledge man can ask! 
Hold it up thus against the light! 


PRINCE HENRY. 


How limpid, pure, and crystalline, 
How quick, and tremulous, and 


bright 
The little wavelets dance and 
shine, 180 
As were it the Water of Life in 
sooth! 
LUCIFER. 


It is! It assuages every pain, 
Cures all disease, and gives again 
To age the swift delights of youth. 
Inhale its fragrance 


PRINCE HENRY. 


It is sweet. 
A thousand different odors meet 
And mingle in its rare perfume, 
Such as the winds of summer waft 
At open windows through a room! 


LUCIFER. 
Will you not taste it? 


PRINCE HENRY. 
Willone draught 
Suffice ? 
LUCIFER. 
Tf not, you can drink more. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Into this erystal goblet pour 
So much as safely I may drink. 


192 


LUCIFER, pouring. 
Let not the quantity alarm you; 
You may drink all; it will not 
harm you. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


I am as one who on the brink 

Of a dark river stands and sees 

The waters flow, the landscape 
dim 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





536 

Around him waver, wheel, and 
swim, 

And, ere he plunges, stops to 
think 200 

Into what whirlpools he may 
sink; 


One moment pauses, and no more, 

Then madly plunges from the 
shore! 

Headlong into the mysteries 

Of life and death I boldly leap, 

Nor fear the fateful current’s 
sweep, 

Nor what inambush lurks below! 

For death is better than disease! 

An ANGEL with an wolian harp 

hovers in the air. 


ANGEL. 
Woe! woe! eternal woe! 
Not only the whispered prayer 210 
Of love, 
But the imprecations of hate, 
Reverberate 
For ever and ever through the air 
Above! 
This fearful curse 
Shakes the great universe! 


LUCIFER, disappearing. 


Drink! drink! 

And thy soul shall sink 

Down into the dark abyss, 

Into the infinite abyss, 

From which no plummet nor rope 

Ever drew up the silver sand of 
hope! 


220 


PRINCE HENRY, drinking. 


It is like a draught of fire! 

Through every vein 

I feel again 

The fever of youth, the soft desire; 

A rapture that is almost pain 

Throbs in my heart and fills my 
brain! 

O joy! Ojoy! I feel 

The band of steel 

That so long and heavily has 
pressed 

Vpon my breast 


230 


- 


Uplifted, and the malediction 

Of my affliction 

Is taken from me, and my weary 
breast 

At length finds rest. 


THE ANGEL. 
Itis but the rest of the fire, from 
which the air has been taken! 
It is but the rest of the sand, when 
the hour-glass is not shaken! 
It is but the rest of the tide be- 
tween the ebb and the 
flow! 240 
It is but the rest of the wind be: 
tween the flaws that blow! 
With fiendish laughter, 
Hereafter, 
This false physician 
Will mock thee in thy perdition. 


PRINCE HENRY. 
Speak! speak! 
Who says that I am ill? 
Tam not ill! Iam not weak! 
The trance, the swoon, the dream, 
is o’er! 249 
I feel the chill of death no more! 
At length, 
I stand renewed in all my strength! 
Beneath me I can feel 
The great earth stagger and reel, 
As if the feet of a descending God 
Upon its surface trod, 
And like a pebble it rolled beneath 
his heel! 
This, O brave physician! this 
Is thy great Palingenesis! 
Drinks again. 


THE ANGEL. 


Touch the goblet no more! 

It will make thy heart sore 

To its very core! 

Its perfume is the breath 

Of the Angel of Death, 

And the light that within it lies 
Is the flash of his evil eyes. 
Beware! Oh, beware} 

For sickness, sorrow, ahd care 
All are there! 


26a 


THE GOLDEN. LEGEND 


537 





PRINCE HENRY, sinking back. 
O thou voice within my breast! 270 
Why entreat me, why upbraid me, 
When the steadfast tongues of 

truth 
And the flattering hopes of youth 
* Have all deceived me and be- 
trayed me? 
Give me, give me rest, oh rest! 
Golden visions wave and hover, 
Golden vapors, waters streaming, 
Landscapes moving, changing, 
gleaming! 
I am like a happy lover, 279 
Who illumines life with dreaming! 
Brave physician! Rare physician! 
Well hast thou fulfilled thy mis- 
sion! 
His head falls on his book. 


THE ANGEL, receding. 
Alas! alas! 
Like a vapor the golden vision 
Shall fade and pass, 
And thou wilt find in thy heart 
again 
Only the blight of pain, 
And bitter, bitter, bitter contrition! 


COURT-YARD OF THE CASTLE. 


HUBERT standing by the gateway. 


HUBERT. 


How sad the grand old castle 
looks! : 289 

O’erhead, the unmolested rooks 

Upon the turret’s windy top 

Sit, talking of the farmer’s crop; 

Here in the court-yard springs the 
grass, 

So few are now the feet that pass; 


The stately peacocks, bolder 
grown, 

Come hopping down the steps of 
stone, 


As if the castle were their own; 

And I, the poor old seneschal, 

Haunt, like a ghost, the banquet- 
hall. 299 


Alas! the merry guests no more 

Crowd through the hospitable 
door ; 

No eyes with youth and passion 
shine, 

No cheeks glow redder than the 
wine; 

No song, no laugh, no jovial din 

Of drinking wassail to the pin; 

But all is silent, sad, and drear, 

And now the only sounds I hear 

Are the hoarse rooks upon the 
walls, 

And horses stamping in their 
stalls ! 

A horn sounds. 

What ho! that merry, sudden 
blast 310 

Reminds me of the days long past! 

And, as of old resounding, grate 

The heavy hinges of the gate, 

And, clattering loud, with iron 
clank, 

Down goes the sounding bridge of 
plank, 

As if it were in haste to greet 

The pressure of a traveller’s feet! 


Enter WALTER the Minnesinger. 


WALTER. 


How now, my friend! 

quite lonely ! 
No banner flying from the walls, 
No pages and no seneschals, 320 
No warders, and one porter only! 
Is it you, Hubert? 


This looks 


HUBERT. 
Ah! Master Walter ! 


WALTER. 

Alas! how forms and faces alter! 

I did not know you. You look 
older! 

Your hair has grown much grayer 
and thinner, 

And you stoop a little in the 
shoulder ! 


HUBERT. 


Alack! Iam a poor old sinner, 


538 


And, like these towers, begin to 
moulder ; 

And you have been absent many a 
year! 


WALTER. 
How is the Prince? 


HUBERT. 


He is not here; 
He has been ill: and now has 
fled. 


WALTER. 


Speak it out frankly: say he’s 
dead ! 
Is it not so? 


HUBERT. 

No; if you please, 
A strange, mysterious disease 
Fell on him with a sudden blight. 
Whole hours together he would 

stand 

Upon the terrace, in a dream, 
Resting his head upon his hand, 
Best pleased when he was most 


alone, 
Like Saint John Nepomuck in 
stone, 340 


Looking down into a stream. 
In the Round Tower, night after 


night, 

He sat and bleared his eyes with 
books; 

Until one morning we found him 
there 

Stretched on the floor, as if in a 
swoon 

He had fallen from his chair. 

We hardly recognized his sweet 
looks! 

WALTER. 


Poor Prince! 


HUBERT. 


I think he might have mended; 
And he did mend; but very soon 
The priests came flocking in, like 

_ rooks, 350 


329 


CHRISTUS:\A MYSTERY 


—aw 


With all their crosiers and thetz 
crooks, 
And so at last the matter ended. 


WALTER. 
How did it end? 


HUBERT. 


Why, in Saint Rochus 

They made him stand, and wait his 
doom ; 

And, as if he were condemned to 
the tomb, 

Began to mutter their hocus-pocus. 

First, the Mass for the Dead they 
chanted, 

Then three times laid upon his 
head : 

A shovelful of churchyard clay, 

Saying to him, as he stood un- 


daunted, 360 
‘This is a sign that thou art 
dead, 


So in thy heart be penitent!’ 

And forth from the chapel door he 
went 

Into disgrace and banishment, 

Clothed in a cloak of hodden gray, 

And bearing a wallet, and a bell, 

Whose sound should be a perpet- 
ual knell 

To keep all travellers away. 


WALTER. 
Oh, horrible fate! Outcast, re- 
jected, 369 
As one with pestilence infected! 
HUBERT. 
Then was the family tomb un- 
sealed, 
And broken helmet, sword, and 
shield, 


Buried together, in common wreck, 

As is the custom, when the last 

Of any princely house has passed, 

And thrice,as with a trumpet-blast, 

A herald shouted down the stair 

The words of warning and de 
spair, — 


*‘O Hoheneck! O Hoheneck!’ 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


539 





WALTER. 

Still in my soul that cry goes 
Oe 380 

Forever gone! forever gone! 

Ah, what a cruel sense of loss) 

Like a black shadow, would fall 
across 

The hearts of all, if he should 
die! 

His gracious presence upon earth 

Was as a fire upon a hearth ; 

As pleasant songs, at morning 
sung, 

The words that dropped from his 
sweet tongue 

Strengthened our hearts; or heard 


at night, 
Made all our slumbers soft and 
light. 390 


Where is he? 


HUBERT. 
In the Odenwald. 

Some of his tenants, unappalled 
By fear of death, or priestly 

word, — 
A holy family, that make 
Each meal a Supper of the Lord, — 
Have him beneath their watch and 

ward, 
For love of him, and Jesus’ sake! 
Pray you come in. For why 

should I 
With out-door hospitality 399 
My prince’s friend thus entertain ? 


WALTER. 


I would a moment here remain. 

But you, good Hubert, go before, 

Fill me a goblet of May-drink, 

As aromatic as the May 

From which it steals the breath 
away, 

And which he loved so well of 
yore; 

It is of him that I would think. 

You shall attend me, when I call, 

In the ancestral banquet-hall. 409 

Unseen companions, guests of 
air, 

‘You cannot wait on, will be there ; 


They taste not food, they drink not 
wine, 

But their soft eyes look into mine, 

And their lips speak to me, and 
all 

The vast and shadowy banquet: 
hall 

Is full of looks and words di- 
vine! 


Leaning over the parapet. 


The day is done; and slowly from 
the scene 

The stooping sun up-gathers his 
spent. shafts, 

And puts them back into his golden 


quiver! 
Below me in the valley, deep and 
green 420 


As goblets are, from which in 
thirsty draughts 

We drink its wine, the swift and 
mantling river 

Flows on triumphant through 
these lovely regions, 

Etched with the shadows of its 
sombre margent, 

And soft, reflected clouds of gold 
and argent! 

Yes, there it flows, forever, broad 
and still 

As when the vanguard of the Ro- 
man legions 

First saw it from the top of yondcr 
hill! 

How beautiful it is! Fresh fields 
of wheat, 

Vineyard, and town, and tower 
with fluttering flag, 430 

The consecrated chapel on the 
crag, 

And the white hamlet gathered 
round its base, 

Like Mary sitting at her Saviour’s 


feet, 

And looking up at his beloved 
face! 

Ofriend! Obest of friends! Thy 


absence more 
Than the impending night darkens 
the landscape o’er! 


540 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





II 
A FARM IN THE ODENWALD 


A garden; morning ; PRINCE 
HENRY seated, with a book. 
ELSIE at a distance gathering 
flowers. 


PRINCE HENRY, reading. 


One morning, all alone, 

Out of his convent of gray stone, 

Into the forest older, darker, 

' grayer, 

His lips moving as if in prayer, 

His head sunken upon his breast 

As in a dream of rest, 

Walked the Monk Felix. All about 

The broad, sweet sunshine lay 
without, 

Filling the summer air; 

And within the woodlands as he 
trod, 10 

The dusk was like the Truce of 
God 

With worldly woe and care; 

Under him lay the golden moss; 

And above him the boughs of 
hoary trees 

Waved, and made the sign of the 

cross, 

whispered their 

tes; 

And from the ground 

Rose an odor sweet and fragrant 

Of the wild. flowers and the va- 


And Benedici- 


grant 
Vines that wandered, 20 
Seeking the sunshine, round and 
round. 


These he heeded not, but pon- 
dered 

On the volume in his hand, 

Wherein amazed he read: 

‘A thousand years in thy sight 

Are but as yesterday when it is 
past, 

And as a watch in the night!’ 

And with his eyes downcast 

In bumility he said: 


‘TI believe, O Lord, 30 
What is written in thy Word, 
But alas! I do not understand !? 


And do! he heard 

The sudden singing of a bird, 

A snow-white bird, that from a 
cloud 

Dropped down, 

And among the branches brown 

Sat singing, 

So sweet, and clear, and loud, 

It seemed a thousand harp-strings 


ringing. 40 
And the Monk Felix closed his 
book, 


And long, long, 

With rapturous look, 

He listened to the song, 

And hardly breathed or stirred, 

Until he saw, as in a vision, 

The land Elysian, 

And in the heavenly city heard 

Angelic feet 

Fall on the golden flagging of the 
street. 5¢ 

And he would fain 

Have caught the wondrous bird, 

But strove in vain; 

For it flew away, away, 

Far over hill and dell, 

And instead of its sweet singing 

He heard the convent bell 

Suddenly in the silence ringing 

For the service of noonday. 

And he retraced 64 

His pathway homeward sadly and 
in haste. 


In the convent there was a change! 

He looked for each well-known 
face, 

But the faces were new and 
strange ; 

New figures sat in the oaken stalls, 

New voices chanted in the choir; 

Yet the place was the same place, 

The same dusky walis 

Of cold, gray stone, 

The same cloisters and belfry and 
spire. 7a 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 





A stranger and alone 

Among that brotherhood 

The Monk Felix stood. 

‘Forty years,’ said a Friar, 
‘Have I been Prior 

Of this convent in the wood, 
But for that space 

Never have I beheld thy face!’ 


The heart of the Monk Felix fell: 
And he answered, with submissive 


tone, 80 
‘This morning, after the hour of 
Prime, 


I left my cell, 

And wandered forth alone, 
Listening all the time 

To the melodious singing 

Of a beautiful white bird, 

Until I heard 

The bells of the convent ringing 
Noon from their noisy towers. 
It was as if I dreamed ; go 
For what to me had seemed 
Moments only, had been hours!’ 


‘Years!’ said a voice close by. 

It was an aged monk who spoke, 

From a bench of oak 

Fastened against the wall; — 

He was the oldest monk of all. 

For a whole century 

Had he been there, 

Serving God in prayer, 100 

The meekest and humblest of his 
creatures. 

He remembered well the features 

Of Felix, and he said, 

Speaking distinct and slow: 

‘One hundred years ago, 

When I was a novice in this place, 

There was here a monk, full of 
God’s grace, 

Who bore the name 

Of Felix, and this man must be 
the same.’ 


And straightway 110 

They brought forth to the light of 
day 

A volume cld and brown, | 


545 


we 


A huge tome, bound 

In brass and wild-boar’s hide, 

Wherein were written down 

The names of all who had died 

In the convent, since it was edi- 
fied. 

And there they found, 

Just as the old monk said, 

That on a certain day and date, 

One hundred years before, 121 

Had gone forth from the convent 
gate 

The Monk Felix, and never more 

Had entered that sacred door. 

He had been counted among the 
dead! 

And they knew, at last, 

That, such had been the power 

Of that celestial and immortal 
song, 

A hundred years had passed, 

And had not seemed so long 

As a single hour! 


130 


ELSIE comes in with flowers. 


ELSIE. 


Here are flowers for you, 

But they are not all for you. 
Some of them are for the Virgin 
And for Saint Cecilia. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


As thou standest there, 

Thou seemest to me like the anger 
That brought the immortal roses 
To Saint Cecilia’s bridal chamber. 


ELSIE. 


But these will fade. 14a 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Themselves will fade, 

But not their memory, 

And memory has the power 

To re-create them from the dust, 
They remind me, too, 

Of martyred Dorothea, 

Who from celestial gardens sent 
Flowers as her witnesses 

To him who scoffed and doubted. 


542 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





ELSIE. 
Do you know the story 150 
Of Christ and the Sultan’s daugh- 
Letay 
That is the prettiest legend of them 
all. 


PRINCE HENRY. 
Then tell it to me. 
But first come hither. 
Lay the flowers down beside me, 
And put both thy hands in mine. 
Now tell me the story. 


ELSIE. 


Early in the morning 

The Sultan’s daughter 

Walked in her father’s garden, 160 
Gathering the bright flowers, 

All full of dew. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Just as thou hast been doing 
This morning, dearest Elsie. 


ELSIE. 


And as she gathered them 

She wondered more and more 

Who was the Master of the Flow- 
ers, 

And made them grow 

Out of the cold, dark earth. 

‘In my heart,’ she said, 

*T love him; and for him 

Would leave my father’s palace, 

To labor in his garden.’ 


170 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Dear, innocent child! 

How sweetly thou recallest 

The long-forgotten legend, 

That in my early childhood 

My mother told me! 

Upon my brain 

It reappears once more, 180 
As a birth-mark on the forehead 
When a hand suddenly 

{s laid upon it, and removed! 


ELSIE. 
And at midnight, 


As she lay upon her bed, 

She heard a voice 

Call to her from the garden, 

And, looking forth from her win. 
dow, 

She saw a beautiful youth 

Standing among the flowers. 

It was the Lord Jesus; 

And she went down to Him, 

And opened the door for Him; 

And He said to her, ‘O maiden! 

Thou hast thought of me with love, 

And for thy sake 

Out of my Father’s kingdom 

Have I come hither : 

I am the Master of the Flowers. 

My garden is in Paradise, 200 

And if thou wilt go with me, 

Thy bridal garland 

Shall be of bright red flowers.’ 

And then He took from his finger 

A golden ring, 

And asked the Sultan’s daughter 

If‘she would be his bride. 


19a 


| And when she answered Him with 


love, 


His wounds began to bleed, 


And she said to Him, 210 

*O Love! how red thy heart is, 

And thy hands are full of roses.’ 

‘For thy sake,’ answered He, 

‘For thy sake is my heart so red, 

For thee I bring these roses; 

I gathered them at the cross 

Whereon I died for thee! 

Come, for my Father calls. 

Thou art my elected bride!’ 

And the Sultan’s daughter 220 

Followed Him to his Father’s gar- 
den. 


PRINCE HENRY. 
Wouldst thou have done so, Elsie? 


ELSIE. 
Yes, very gladly. 


PRINCE HENRY. 
Then the Celestial Bridegroom 
‘Will come for thee also. 
Upon thy forehead He will place, 





THE GOLDEN LEGEND € 543 
Not his crown of thorns, URSULA. 
But a crown of roses, They are sitting with Elsie at the 
In thy bridal chamber, door. 
Like Saint Cecilia, 230 | She is telling them stories of the 
Thou shalt hear sweet music, wood, ; 
And breathe the fragrance And the Wolf, and little Red Rid- 
Of flowers immortal! inghood. 
Go now and place these flowers 
Before her picture. GOTTLIEB. 


A ROOM IN THE FARM-HOUSE. 


Twilight. URSULA spinning. 
GOTTLIEB asleep in his chair. 


URSULA. 

Darker and darker! Hardly a 
glimmer 

Of light comes in at the window- 
pane ; 

Or is it my eyes are growing dim- 
mer? 

T cannot disentangle this skein, 

Nor wind it rightly upon the 
reel. 240 

Elsie! 


GOTTLIEB, starting. 


The stopping of thy wheel 

Has awakened me out of a plea- 
sant dream. 

I thought I was sitting beside a 
stream, 

And heard the grinding of a mill, 

When suddenly the wheels stood 
still, 

And a voice cried ‘Elsie’ in my 
ear! 

It startled me, it seemed so near. 


URSULA. 
I was calling her: I want a light. 
I cannot see to spin my flax. 
Bring the lamp, Elsie. Dost thou 
hear? 250 
ELSIE, within. 
In a moment! 


GOTTLIEB. 
Where are Bertha and Max? 


And where is the Prince? 


URSULA, 


In his room overhead; 

I heard him walking across the 
floor, 

As he always does, with a heavy 
tread. 


ELSIE comesin with alamp, MAX 
and BERTHA follow her; and 
they all sing the Evening Song 
on the lighting of the lamps. 


EVENING SONG. 


O gladsome light 

Of the Father Immortal, 
And of the celestial 
Sacred and blessed 
Jesus, our Saviour ! 


260 


Now to the sunset 

Again hast thou brought us; 
And, seeing the evening 
Twilight, we bless thee, 
Praise thee, adore thee! 


Father omnipotent! 
Son, the Life-giver ! 
Spirit, the Comforter ! 
Worthy at all times 

Of worship and wonder ! 


274 


PRINCE HENRY, at the door. 


Amen ! 
URSULA. 


Who was it said Amen ? 


ELSIE. 


It was the Prince: he stood at the 
door, 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





544 

And listened a moment, as we 
chanted 

The evening song. He is gone 
again. 


Ihave often seen him there before. 


URSULA. 
Poor Prince! 


GOTTLIEB. 


I thought the house was haunted! 
Poor Prince, alas! and yet as mild 
And patient as the gentlest 

child ! 280 


MAX. 


TI love him because he is so good, 

And makes me such fine bows and 
arrows, 

To shoot at the robins and. the 
sparrows, 

And the red squirrels in the wood! 


BERTHA, 
I love him, too! 


GOTTLIEB. 


Ah, yes! we all 
Love him, from the bottom of our 
hearts ; 
He gave us the farm, the house, 
and the grange, 
He gave us the horses and the 
carts, 
And the great oxen in the stall, 
The vineyard, and the forest 
range! 290 
We have nothing to give him but 
our love! 


BERTHA. 


Did he give us the beautiful stork 
above 

On the chimney-top, with its large, 
round nest ? 


GOTTLIEB. 
No, not the stork; by God in 
heaven, 
As a blessing, the dear white stork 
was given, 


But the Prince has given us all the 


rest. 

God bless him, and make him well 
again. 

ELSIE. 

Would I could do something for 
his sake, 

Something to cure his sorrow anc 
pain! 299 

GOTTLIEB. 


That noonecan; neither thou norI, 
Nor any one else. 


ELSIE. 
And must he die? 


URSULA. 
Yes; if the dear God does not take 
Pity upon him, in his distress, 
And work a miracle ! 


GOTTLIEB. 
Or unless 
Some maiden, of her own accord, 
Offers her life for that of her lord, 
And is willing to die in his stead. 


ELSIE. 
I will! 


URSULA. 
Prithee, thou foolish child, be still! 
Thou shouldst not say what thou 
dost not mean ! 309 


ELSIE. 
I mean it truly! 


MAX. 


O father! this morning, 
Down by the mill, in the ravine, 
Hans killed a wolf, the very same 
That in the night to the sheepfold 
came, 
And ate up my lamb, that was left 
outside. 


GOTTLIEB. 


Tam glad he is dead. 
warning 


It will bea 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


545 





To the wolves in the forest, far 
and wide. 


MAX. 
And I am going to have his hide! 


BERTHA. 


I wonder if this is the wolf that ate 
Little Red Ridinghood! 


URSULA. 
Oh, no! 
That wolf was killed a long while 
ago. 320 


Come, children, it is growing late. 


MAX. 


Ah, how I wish I were a man, 

~ As stout as Hans is, and as strong! 

I would do nothing else, the whole 
day long, 

But just kill wolves. 


GOTTLIEB. 


Then go to bed, 
And grow as fast as a little boy 
can. 
Bertha is half asleep already. 
See how she nods her heavy head, 
And her sleepy feet are so un- 


steady 
She will hardly be able to creep 
upstairs, 330 
URSULA. 


Good night, my children. Here’s 
the light. 
And do not forget to say your 
prayers 
Before you sleep. 
GOTTLIEB. 
Good night! 


MAX and BERTHA. 
Good night! 
They go out with ELSIE. 


URSULA, spinning. 


She is a strange and wayward 
child, 


That Elsie of ours. She looks so 
old, 

And thoughts and fancies weird 
and wild 

Seem of late to have taken hold 

Of her heart, that was once so do« 
cile and mild! 


GOTTLIEB. 
She is like all girls. 


URSULA. 
‘Ah no, forsooth! 
Unlike all I have ever seen. 340 
For she has visions and strange 
dreams, 
And in all her words and ways, she 
seems 
Much older than she is in truth. 
Who would think her but fifteen? 
And there has been of late such a 
change! 
My heart is heavy with fear and 
‘doubt 
That she may not live till the year 
is out. 
She is so strange, — so strange,— 
so strange! 


GOTTLIEB. 


I am not troubled with any such 
fears 

She will live and thrive for many 
a year. 350 


ELSIE’S CHAMBER. 


Night. ELsiE praying. 


ELSIE, 


My Redeemer and my Lord, 

I beseech thee, I entreat thee, 

Guide me in each act and word, 

That hereafter I may meet thee, 

Watching, waiting, hoping, yearn- 
ing, 

With my lamp well trimmed and 
burning! 


Interceding 
With these bleeding 
Wounds upon thy hands ana side, 


546 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





For all who have lived and erréd, 
Thou hast suffered, thou hast died, 
Scourged, and mocked, and cruci- 


fied, 362 
And in the grave hast thou been 
buried! 


If my feeble prayer can reach thee, 
O my Saviour, I beseech thee, 
Even as thou hast died for me, 
More sincerely 

Let me follow where thou leadest, 
Let me, bleeding as thou bleedest, 
Die, if dying I may give 370 
Life to one who asks to live, 

And more nearly, 

Dying thus, resemble thee! 


THE CHAMBER OF GOTTLIEB 
AND URSULA. 


Midnight. EwsiE standing by 
their bedside, weeping. 


GOTTLIEB. 
The wind is roaring; the rushing 
rain 
Is loud upon roof and window- 
pane, 
As if the Wild Huntsman of Ro- 
denstein, 


Boding evil to me and mine, 

Were abroad to-night with his 
ghostly train! 

In the brief lulls of the tempest 
wild, 


The dogs howl in the yard; and | 
380 | 


hark! 
Some one is sobbing in the dark, 
Here in the chamber! 
ELSIE. 
It is I. 


URSULA. 
Elsie! what ails thee, my poor 
child? 
ELSIE. 


{ am disturbed and much dis- 
tressed, 


In thinking our dear Prince must 
die ; 
I cannot close mine eyes, nor rest. 
GOTTLIEB. 
wouldst thou? 
Power Divine 


His healing lies, not in our own; 
It is in the hand of God alone. 


What In the 


ELSIE. 


Nay, He has put it into mine, 
And into my heart! 


399 


GOTTLIEB. 
Thy words are wild}! 


URSULA. 


What dost thou mean? my child! 
my child! 


ELSIE. 


That for our dear Prince Henry’s 
sake 

I will myself the offering make, 

And give my life to purchase his. 


URSULA. 
Am I still dreaming, or awake? 
Thou speakest carelessly of death, 
And yet thou knowest not what 
it is. 
ELSIE. 


’T is the cessation of our breath. 

Silent and motionless we lie; 400 

And no one knoweth more than 
this. 

I saw our little Gertrude die; 

She left off breathing, and no 
more 

I smoothed the pillow beneath her 
head. 

She was more beautiful than be- 
fore. 

Like violets faded were her eyes ; 

By this we knew that she was 
dead. ; 

Through the open window looked 
the skies 

Into the chamber where she lay, 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


547 





And the wind was like the sound 


of wings, 410 
As if angels came to bear her 
away. 
Ah! when I saw and felt these 
things, 


T found it difficult to stay; 

I longed to die, as she had died, 

And go forth with her, side by side. 

The Saints are dead, the Martyrs 
dead, 

And Mary, and our Lord; and I 

Would follow in humility 

The way by them illuminéd! 


URSULA. 
My child! my child! thou must not 
die! 420 
ELSTE. 


Why should I live? Do I not 
know 

The life of woman is full of woe? 

Toiling on and on and on, 

With breaking heart, and tearful 
eyes, 

And silent lips, and in the soul 

The secret longings that arise, 

Which this world never satisfies ! 

Some more, some less, but. of the 
whole 

Not one quite happy, no, not one! 


URSULA. 


It is the malediction of Eve! 430 


ELSIE. 


In place of it, let me receive 
The benediction of Mary, then. 


GOTTLIEB. 


Ah, woe is me! Ah, woe is me! 
Most wretched am I among men! 


URSULA. 
Alas! that I should live to see 
Thy death, beloved, and to stand 
Above thy grave! Ah, woe the 
day ! 
ELSIE. 


Thou wilt not see it. I shall lie 


Beneath the flowers of another 
land, 

For at Salerno, far away 440 

Over the mountains, over the sea, 

It is appointed me to die! 

And it will seem no more to thee 

Than if at the village on market- 
day 

I should a little longer stay 

Than I am wont. 


URSULA. 


Even as thou sayest! 
And how my heart beats, when 
thou stayest ! 
I cannot rest until my sight 
Is satisfied with seeing thee. 
What then, if thou wert dead ? 


449 


GOTTLIEB. 


Ah me! 
Of our old eyes thou art the light! 
The joy of our old hearts art thou! 
And wilt thou die? 


URSULA. 


Not now! not now! 
ELSIE. 
Christ died for me, and shall not I 
Be willing for my Prince to die? 
You both are silent; you cannot 
speak. 
This said I at our Saviour’s feast 
After confession, to the priest, 
And even he made no reply. 459 
Does he not warn us all to seek 
The happier, better land on high, 
Where flowers immortal never 
wither ; 
And could he forbid me to go: 
thither ? 


GOTTLIEB. 

In God’s own time, my heart’s 
delight! 

When He shall call thee, not be- 
fore! 

ELSIE. 

I heard Him call. When Christ 

ascended 


548 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





Triumphantly, from star to star, 

He left the gates of heaven ajar. 

i had a vision in the night, 469 

And saw Him standing at the door 

Of his Father’s mansion, vast and 
splendid, 

And beckoning to me froin afar. 

I canhot stay! 


' GOTTLIEB. 


She speaks almost 
As if it were the Holy Ghost 
Spake through her lips, and in her 


stead! 
What if this were of God? 
URSULA. 
Ah, then 
Gainsay it dare we not. 
GOTTLIEB. 
Amen! 
Elsie! the words that thou hast 
said 
Are strange and new for us to 
hear, 
And fill our hearts with doubt and 
fear. 480 


Whether it be a dark temptation 

Of the Evil One, or God’s inspira- 
tion, 

We in our blindness cannot say. 

We must think upon it, and pray; 

For evil and good it both re- 
sembles. 

If it be of God, his will be done! 

May He guard us from the Evil 
One! 

How hot thy hand is! how it 
trembles! 

Go to thy bed, and try to sleep. 


URSULA. 


Kiss me. Good night; and do not 
weep! 490 


ELSIE goes out. 


Ah, what an awful thing is this! 

I almost shuddered at her kiss, 

As if a ghost had touched my 
cheek, 





Tam so childish and so weak! 

As soon as I see the earliest gray 

Of morning glimmer in the east, 

I will go over to the priest, 

And hear what the good man hag 
to say! 


A VILLAGE CHURCH. 


A woman kneeling at the confess 
sional. 


THE PARISH PRIEST, from within. 


Go, sin no more! Thy penance 
o’er, 
A new and better life begin! 
God maketh thee forever free 
From the dominion of thy sin! 
Go, sin no more! He will re- 
store 
The peace that filled thy heart be- 
fore, : 
And pardon thine iniquity ! 
The woman goes out. The Priest 
comes forth, and walks slowly up 
and down the church. 


O blessed Lord! 
need 

Thy light to guide me on my 
way! 

So many hands, that, without heed, 

Still touch thy wounds, and make 
them bleed! 509 

So many feet, that, day by day, 

Still wander from thy fold astray! 

Unless thou fill me with thy light, 

I cannot lead thy flock aright; 

Nor, without thy support, can bear 

The burden of so great a care, 

But am myself a castaway ! 

A pause. 

The day is drawing to its close; 

And what good deeds, since first 
it rose, 

Have I presented, Lord, to thee, 

As offerings of my ministry? 520 

What wrong repressed, what right 
maintained, 

What struggle passed, what vie 
tory gained, 


500 


how much I 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 





What good attempted and at- 
tained? 
Feeble, at best, is my endeavor ! 
T see, but cannot reach, the height 
That lies forever in the light, 
And yet forever and forever, 
When seeming just within my 
grasp, 
I feel my feeble hands unclasp, 529 
And sink discouraged into night! 
For thine own purpose, thou hast 
sent 
The strife and the discouragement! 
A pause. 
Why stayest thou, Prince of Ho- 
heneck ? 
Why keep me pacing to and fro 
» Amid these aisles of sacred gloom, 
Counting my footsteps as I go, 
And marking with each step a 
tomb? 
Why should the world for thee 
inake room, Bae 
And wait thy leisure and thy beck ? 
Thou comest in the hope to hear 
Some word of comfort and of 
cheer. 
What can I say? I cannot give 
The counsel to do this and live; 
But rather, firmly to deny 
The tempter, though his power be 
strong, 
And, inaccessible to wrong, 
Still like-a martyr live and die! 
A pause. 
The evening air grows dusk and 
brown; 
I must go forth into the town, 549 
To visit beds of pain and death, 
Sf restless limbs, and quivering 
breath, 
And sorrowing hearts, and patient 
eyes 
That see, through tears, the sun 
go down, 
But never more shall see it rise. 
The poor in body and estate, 
The sick and the disconsolate, 
Must not on man’s convenience 
wait. 
Goes out. 








549 


Enter LUCIFER, as a@ Priest. 


LUCIFER, with a genuflexion- 


mocking. 

This is the Black Pater-noster. 
God was my foster, 
He fostered me 5604 
Under the book of the Palm-tree! 
St. Michael was my dame. 
He was born at Bethlehem, 
He was made of flesh and blood. 
God send me my right food, 
My right food, and shelter too, 
That I may to yon kirk go, 
To read upon yon sweet book 
Which the mighty God of heaven 

shook. 
Open, open, hell’s gates ! 
Shut, shut, heaven’s gates! 
All the devils in the air 
The stronger be, that hear the 

Black Prayer! 

Looking round the church. 


579 


What a darksome and dismal 
place! 

I wonder that any man has the 
face 


To call such a hole the House of 
the Lord, 

And the Gate of Heaven,— yet 
such is the word. 

Ceiling, and walls, and windows 
old, 

Covered with cobwebs, blackened 
with mould; 

Dust on the pulpit, dust on the 
stairs, 580 

Dust on the benches, and stalls, 
and chairs! 

The pulpit, from which such pon- 
derous sermons 

Have fallen down on the brains of 
the Germans, 

With about as much real edifica- 
tion 

As if a great Bible, bound in lead, 

Had fallen, and struck them on 
the head ; 

And I ought to remember that sen: 
sation! 

Here stands the holy-water stoup! 


550 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





Holy-water it may be to many, 


But to me, the veriest ile: 
Gehenne ! 

It smells like a filthy fast- iy 
soup! 

Near it stands the pax for the 
poor, 

With its iron padlock, safe and 
sure. 


IT and the priest of the parish know 

Whither all these charities go; 

Therefore, to keep up the institu- 
tion, 
I will add my little contribution ! 
He puts in money. 
Underneath this mouldering tomb, 
‘With statue of stone, and scutch- 
eon of brass, 

Slumbers a great lord of the vil- 
lage. 600 

All his life was riot and pillage, 

But at length to escape the threat- 
ened doom 

Of the everlasting penal fire, 

He died in the dress of a mendi- 
cant friar, 

And bartered his wealth for a 
daily mass. 

But all that afterwards came to 
pass, 

And whether he finds it dull or 
pleasant, 

Is kept a secret for the present, 

At his own particular desire. 609 


And here, in a corner of the wall, 

Shadowy, silent, apart from all, 

With its awful portal open wide, 

And its latticed windows on either 
side, 

And its step well worn by the 
bended knees 

Of one or two pious centuries, 

Stands the village confessional! 

Within it, as an honored guest, 

I will sit down awhile and rest! 

Seats himself in the confessional. 

Here sits the priest; and faint and 


low, 
Like the sighing of an evening 
breeze, 


620 


Comes through these painted lat 


tices 

The ceaseless sound of human 
woe; 

Here, while her bosom aches and 
throbs 


With deep and agonizing sobs, 
That half are passion, half contri 


tion, 

The luckless daughter of perdi- 
tion 

Slowly confesses her secret 
shame! 

The time, the place, the lover’g 
hame! 

Here the grim murderer, with a 
groan, 


From his bruised conscience rolls 
the stone, 630 

Thinking that thus he can atone 

For ravages of sword and flame! 


Indeed, I marvel, and marvel 
greatly, 

How a priest can sit here so se. 
dately, 

Reading, the whole year out and 
in, 

Naught but the catalogue of sin, 

And still keep any faith whatever 

In human virtue! Never! never! 


I cannot repeat a thousandth 
part 

Of the horrors and crimes and sins 
and woes 640 

That arise, when with palpitating 
throes 

The graveyard in the human heart 

Gives up its dead, at the voice of 
the priest, 

As if he were an archangel, at 
least. 

It makes a peculiar atmosphere, 

This odor of earthly passions and 
crimes, 

Such as I like to breathe, at times, 

And such as often brings me here 

In the hottest and most pestilen 
tial season. 649 

To-day, I come for another reason, 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


555 





To foster and ripen an evil thought 

In a heart that is almost to mad- 
ness wrought, 

And to make a murderer out of a 


prince, 

A Sleight of hand I learned long 
since! 

He comes. In the twilight he will 
not see 

The difference between his priest 
and me! 

In the same net was the mother 
caught! 

PRINCE HENRY, entering and 


kneeling at the confessional. 


Remorseful, penitent, and lowly, 
I come to crave, O Father holy, 


Thy benediction on my head. 660 


LUCIFER. 


The benediction shall be said 

After confession, not before! 

*T is a God-speed to the parting 
guest, 

Who stands already at the door, 


Sandalled with holiness, and 
dressed 

In garments pure from earthly 
stain. 


Meanwhile, hast thou searched 
well thy breast? 

Does the same mudness fill thy 
brain ? 

Or have thy passion and unrest 669 

Vanished forever from thy mind? 


PRINCE HENRY. 
By the same madness still made 


blind, 

By the same passion still pos- 
sessed, 

I come again to the house of 
prayer, 


A man afflicted and distressed ! 

As in a cloudy atmosphere, 

Through unseen sluices of the 
air, 

A sudden and impetuous wind 

Strikes the great forest white with 
fear, 


And every branch, and bough, and 


spray 
Points allits quivering leaves one 
way, 680 


And meadows of grass, and fields 
of grain, 

And the clouds above, and the 
slanting rain, 

And smoke from chimneys of the 
town, 

Yield themselves to it, and bow 
down, 

So does this dreadful purpose 
press 

Onward, with irresistible stress, 

And all my thoughts and faculties, 

Struck level by the strength of 
this, 

From their true inclination turn, 

And all stream forward to Sa- 
lern! 690 


LUCIFER. 


Alas! we are but eddies of dust, 
Uplifted by the blast, and whirled 
Along the highway of the world 
A moment only, then to fall 

Back to a common level all, 

At the subsiding of the gustt 


PRINCE HENRY. 


O holy Father! pardon in me 

The oscillation of a mind 

Unsteadfast, and that cannot 
find 699 

Its centre of rest and harmony! 

For evermore before mine eyes 

This ghastly phantom flits and 


flies, 

And as a madman through a 
crowd, 

With frantic gestures and wild 
cries, 


It hurries onward, and aloud 
Repeats its awful prophecies! 


Weakness is wretchedness: To 
be strong 

Is to be happy ! I am weak, 

And cannot find the good I 
seek, 70G 


, Because I feel and fear the wrong ! 





For a mild and general application, 

To be understood with the reser- 
vation 

That in certain instances the Right 

Must yield to the Expedient! 

Thou art a Prince. If thou 
shouldst die, 

What hearts and hopes would 
prostrate lie! 


What noble deeds, what fair re- 
nown, 

Into the grave with thee go 
down! 729 


What acts of valor and courtesy 
Remain undone, and die with 
thee! 

Thou art the last of all thy race! 
With thee a noble name expires, 
And vanishes from the earth’s face 
The glorious memory of thy sires ! 
She isa peasant. In her veins 
Flows common and plebeian blood ; 
It is such as daily and hourly 


stains 

The dust and the turf of battle 
plains, 

By vassals shed, in a crimson 
flood, 740 


Without reserve, and without re- 
ward, 








552 CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 
LUCIFER. At the slightest summons of their 

Be not alarmed! The Church is lord! 

kind, But thine is precious; the fore-ap. 
And in her mercy and her meek- pointed 

ness Blood of kings, of God’s anoint 

' She meets half-way her children’s ed! 

weakness, Moreover, what has the. world in 
Writes their transgressions in the store 

dust! For one like her, but tears and 
Though in the Decalogue we find toil? 
The mandate written, ° Thou shalt | Daughter of sorrow, serf of the 

not kill!’ soil, 
Yet there are cases when we must. | A peasant’s child and a peasant’s 
In war, for instance, or from wife, 

scathe And her soul within her sick and 
To guard and keep the one true sore 

Faith, With the roughness and barren- 
We must look at the Decalogue in ness of life! 750 

the light 720 | I marvel not at the heart’s recoil 
Of an ancient statute, that was | From a fate like this, in one so 

meant tender, 


Nor at its eagerness to surrender 

All the wretchedness, want, and 
woe 

That await it in this world below, 

For the unutterable splendor 

Of the world of rest beyond the 


skies. 

So the Church sanctions the sacri- 
fice: : 

Therefore inhale this healing 
balm, 

And breathe this fresh life into 
thine ; 760 


Accept the comfort and the calm 

She offers, as a gift divine ; 

Let her fall down and anoint thy 
feet 

With the ointment costly and most 
sweet 

Of her young blood, and thou shalt 
live. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


And will the righteous Heaven for. 
give ? 

No action, whether foul or fair, 

Is ever done, but it leaves some: 
where 

A record, written by fingers 
ghostly, 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


553 





As a blessing or a curse, and 


mostly 770 
In the greater weakness or greater 
strength 
Of the acts which follow it, till at 
length 
The wrongs of ages are redressed, 
And the justice of God made mani- 
fest! 


LUCIFER. 


In ancient records it is stated 

That, whenever an evil deed is 
done, 

Another devil is created 

To scourge and torment the offend- 
ing one! 

But evil is only good perverted, 

And Lucifer, the bearer of Light, 

But an angel fallen and deserted, 

Thrust from his Father’s house 
with a curse 782 

[nto the black and endless night. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


[f justice rules the universe, 
From the good actions of good men 
Angels of light should be begotten, 
And thus the balance restored 
again. 
LUCIFER. 
Yes ; if the world were not so rot- 


ten, 
And so given over to the Devil! 


PRINCE HENRY. 


But this deed, is it good or evil? 
Have I thine absolution free 79: 
To do it, and without restriction ? 


LUCIFER. 
Ay; and from whatsoever sin 
Lieth around it and within, 
From all crimes in which it may 
involve thee, 
I now release thee and absolve 
thee! 


PRINCE HENRY. 
Give me thy holy benediction. 


LUCIFER, stretching forth his 
hand and muttering. 
Maledictione perpetua 
Maledicat vos 


Pater eternus! 800 


THE ANGEL, with the wolian harp. 


| Take heed! take heed ! 


Noble art thou in thy birth, 

By the good and the great of earth 

Hast thou been taught! 

Be noble in every thought 

And in every deed! 

Let not the illusion of thy senses 

Betray thee to deadly offences. 

Be strong! be good! be pure! 

The right only shall endure, 810 

All things else are but false pre- 
tences. 

I entreat thee, I implore, 

Listen no more 

To the suggestions of an evil spirit, 

That even now is there, 

Making the foul seem fair, 

And selfishness itself a virtue and 
a merit! 


A ROOM IN THE FARM-HOUSE. 


GOTTLIEB. 


It is decided! For many days, 

And nights as many, we have had 

A nameless terror in our breast, 

Making us timid, and afraid  82r 

Of God, and his mysterious ways! 

We have been sorrowful and sad; 

Much have we suffered, much have 
prayed 

That He would lead us as is best, 

And show us what his will re- 
quired. 

It is decided; and we give 

Our child, O Prince, that you may 
live! 


URSULA. 


It is of God. He has inspired 

This purpose in her; and through 
pain, 830 

Out of a world of sin and woe, 

He takes her to Himself again. 


554 


The mother’s heart resists no 
longer ; 
With the Angel of the Lord in vain 


It wrestled, for he was the 
stronger. 
GOTTLIEB. 


As Abraham offered long ago 

His son unto the Lord, and even 

The Everlasting Father in heaven 

Gave his, as a lamb unto the 
slaughter, 

So do I offer up my daughter! 840 
URSULA /rides her face. : 


ELSIE. 

My life is little, 

Only a cup of water, 
But pure and limpid. 
Take it, O my Prince! 
Let it refresh you, 

Let it restore you. 

It is given willingly, 

It is given freely ; 

May God bless the gift! 


PRINCE HENRY. 


And the giver! 850 


GOTTLIEB. 
Amen! 


PRINCE HENRY. 
T accept it! 


GOTTLIEB. 
Where are the children? 


URSULA. 
They are already asleep. 


GOTTLIEB. 
What if they were dead? 
IN THE GARDEN. 


ELSIE. 
I have one thing to ask of you. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


What is it? 
It is already granted. 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





ELSIE. 
Promise me, 

When we are gone from here, and 
on our way 

Are journeying to Salerno, you 
will not, 

By word or deed, endeavor to dis- 
suade me 860 


| And turn me from my purpose; 


but remember 

That as a pilgrim to the Holy City 

Walks unmolested, and witk 
thoughts of pardon 

Occupied wholly, so would I ap- 
proach 

The gates of Heaven, in this great 
jubilee, 

With my petition, putting off from 
me 

All thoughts of earth, as shoes 
from off my feet. 

Promise me this. 


PRINCE HENRY. 
Thy words fall from thy lips 
Like roses from the lips of Angelo: 
and angels 86g 
Might stoop to pick them up! 


ELSIE. 
Will you not promise ? 


PRINCE HENRY. 
If ever we depart upon this jour- 
ney, 
So long to one or both of us, I 
promise. 


ELSIE. 


Shall we not go, then? Have you 
lifted me 

Into the air, only to hurl me back 

Wounded upon the ground? and 
offered me 

The waters of eternal life, to bid me 

Drink the polluted puddles of this 
world? 


PRINCE HENRY. 


O Elsie! what a lesson thou dost 
teach me! 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


555 





The life which is, and that which 
is to come, 

‘Suspended hang in such nice equi- 
poise 880 

A breath disturbs the balance; 
and that scale 

In which we throw our hearts pre- 
ponderates, 

And the other, like an empty one, 
flies up, 

And is accounted vanity and air! 

To me the thought of death is 
terrible, 

Having such hold on life. To thee 
it is not 

So much even as the lifting of a 
latch ; 

Only a step into the open air 

Out of a tent already luminous 

With light that shines through its 
transparent walls! 890 

O pure in heart! from thy sweet 
dust shall grow 

Lilies, upon whose petals will be 
written 

‘ Ave Maria’ in characters of gold! 


III 
A STREET IN STRASBURG 


Night. PRINCE HENRY wander- 
ing alone, wrapped in a cloak. 


PRINCE HENRY. 

Stillis the night. The sound of feet 

Has died away from the empty 
street, 

And like an artisan, bending down 

His head on his anvil, the dark 
town 

Sleeps, with a slumber deep and 
sweet. 

Sleepless and restless, I alone, 

In the dusk and damp of these 

* walls of stone, 
Wander and weep in my remorse! 


CRIER OF THE DEAD, ringing a 
bell. 
Wake! wake! 
All ye that sleep! 10 


Pray for the Dead! 
Pray tor the Dead! 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Hark! with what accents loud 
and hoarse 


This warder on the walls of 
death 

Sends forth the challenge of his 
breath! 

I see the dead that sleep in the 
grave! 

They rise up and their garments 
wave, 


Dimly and spectral, as they rise, 
With the light of another world in 
their eyes! 


CRIER OF THE DEAD. 


Wake! wake! 20 
All ye that sleep! 

Pray for the Dead! 

Pray for the Dead! 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Why for the dead, who are at rest ? 

Pray for the living, in whose breast 

The struggle between right and 
wrong 


_Is raging terrible and strong, 


As when good angels war with 
devils! 

This is the Master of the Revels, 

Who, at Life’s flowing feast, pro- 


poses 30 

The health of absent friends, and 
pledges, 

Not in bright goblets crowned with 
roses, 

And tinkling as we touch their 
edges, 


But with his dismal, tinkling bell, 
That mocks and mimics their fu. 
neral knell! 


CRIER OF THE DEAD. 
Wake! wake! 
All ye that sleep i 
Pray for the Dead ! 
Pray for the Dead? 


556 


CHRISTUS: A. MYSTERY 





PRINCE HENRY. 
Wake not, beloved! be thy sleep 4o 
Silent as night is, and as deep! 
There walks a sentinel at thy gate 
Whose heart is heavy and deso- 
late, 
And the heavings of whose bosom 
number 
The respirations of thy slumber, 
As if some strange, mysterious 
fate 
Had linked two hearts in one, and 
mine 
Went madly wheeling about thine, 
Only with wider and wilder sweep! 


CRIER OF THE DEAD, at a dis- 
tance. 
Wake! wake! 50 
All ye that sleep! 
Pray for the Dead! 
Pray for the Dead! 


PRINCE HENRY. 

Lo! with what depth of blackness 
thrown 

Against the clouds, far up the 
skies 

The walls of the cathedral rise, 

Like a mysterious grove of stone, 

With fitful lights and shadows 
blending, 

As from behind, the moon, ascend- 
ing, 

Lights its dim aisles and paths un- 
known! 60 

The wind is rising; but the boughs 

Rise not and’ fall not with the 
wind, 

That-through their foliage sobs 
and soughs ; 

Only the cloudy rack behind, 

Drifting onward, wild and ragged, 

Gives to each spire and buttress 
jagged 

A seeming motion undefined. 

Below on the square, an arméd 
knight, 

Still as a statue and as white, 

Sits on his steed, and the moon- 
beams quiver 70 


Upon the points of his armot 
bright 

As on the ripples of a river. 

He lifts the visor from his cheek, 

And beckons, and makes as he 
would speak. 


WALTER the Minnesinger. 


Friend! can you tell me where 
alight 
Thuringia’s 
night? 
For I have lingered in the rear, 
And wander vainly up and down. 


horsemen for the 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Tam a Stranger in the town, 

As thou art; but the voice I 
hear 8e 

Is not a stranger to mine ear. 

Thou art Walter of the Vogel- 
weid! 


WALTER. 


Thou hast guessed rightly; and 
thy name 
Is Henry of Hoheneck ! 


PRINCE HENRY. 
Ay, the same. 


WALTER, embracing him. 


Come closer, closer to my side! 

What brings thee hither? What 
potent charm 

Has drawn thee from thy German 
farm 

Into the old Alsatian city ? 


PRINCE HENRY. 


A tale of wonder and of pity! 

A wretched man, almost by 
stealth 90 

Dragging my body to Salern, 

In the vain hope and search for 
health, 

And destined never to return. 

Already thou hast heard the rest. 

But what brings thee, thus armed 
and dight 

In the equipments of a knight ? 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 





WALTER. 
Dost thou not see upon my breast 
The cross of the Crusaders shine? 
My pathway leads to Palestine. 


PRINCE HENRY. 

Ah, would that way were also 
mine! 100 

O noble poet! thou whose heart 

Is like a nest of singing-birds 

Rocked on the topmost bough of 
life, 

Wilt thou, too, from our sky depart, 

And in the clangor of the strife 

Mingle the musie of thy words ? 


WALTER, 

My hopes are high, my heart is 
proud, 

And like a trumpet long and loud, 

Thither my thoughts all clang and 
ring! 

My life is in my hand, and lo! 

I grasp and bend it as a bow, 

And shoot forth from its trembling 
String 

An arrow, that shall be, perchance, 

Like the arrow of the Israelite 
king 

Shot from the window toward the 
east, 

That of the Lord’s deliverance! 


110 


PRINCE HENRY. 


My life, alas! is what thou seest! 

O enviable fate! to be 

Strong, beautiful, and armed like 
thee 

With lyre and sword, with song 
and steel; 120 

A hand to smite, a heart to feel! 

Thy heart, thy hand, thy lyre, thy 
sword, 

Thou givest all unto thy Lord ; 

While I, so mean and abject 
grown, 

Am thinking of myself alone. 


WALTER, 


Be patient: Time will reinstate 
Thy health and fortunes. 


557 
PRINCE HENRY. 
’T is too late} 
I cannot strive against my fate! 


WALTER. 
Come with me; for my steed is 
weary ; 
Our journey has been long and 
dreary, 130 


And, dreaming of his stall, he dints 
With his impatient hoofs the 
flints. 


PRINCE HENRY, aside. 


I am ashamed, in my disgrace, 
To look into that noble face! 
To-morrow, Walter, let it be. 


WALTER. 


To-morrow, at the dawn of day, 

I shall again be on my way. 

Come with me to the hostelry, 

For I have many things to Say. 
Our journey into Italy 140 
Perchance together we may make ; 
Wilt thou not do it for my sake? 


PRINCE HENRY. 


A sick man’s pace would but im- 
pede 
Thine eager and impatient speed. 
Besides, my pathway leads me 
round 
To Hirschau, in the forest’s bound, 
Where I assemble man and steed, 
And all things for my journey’s 
need. 
They go out. 


LUCIFER, flying over the city. 


Sleep, sleep, O city! till the light 

Wake you to sin and crime 
again, 150 

Whilst on your dreams, like dis- 
mal rain, 

I scatter downward through the 
night 

My maledictions dark and deep. 

I have more martyrs in your walls 

Than God has; and they cannot 
sleep; 


558 


’ CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





They are my bondsmen and my 
thralls ; 

Their wretched lives are full of 
pain, 

Wild agonies of nerve and brain; 


And every heart-beat, every 
breath, 159 

Ts a convulsion worse than death! 

Sleep, sleep, O city ! though within 

The circuit of your walls there be 

No habitation free from sin, 

And all its nameless misery ; 

The aching heart, the aching head, 

Grief for the living and the dead, 

And foul corruption of the time, 

Disease, distress, and want, and 
woe, 

And crimes, and passions that may 
grow 


Until they ripen into crime! 170 


SQUARE IN FRONT OF THE 
CATHEDRAL. 


Easter Sunday. FRIAR CUTH- 
BERT preaching to the crowd 
Srom a pulpit in the open air, 
PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE 
crossing the square. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


This is the day, when from the 
dead 

Our Lord arose; and everywhere, 

Out of their darkness and despair, 

Triumphant over fears: and foes, 

The hearts of his disciples rose, 

When to the women, standing near, 

The Angel in shining vesture said, 

‘The Lord is risen; He is not 
here!’ 

And, mindful that the day is come, 

On all the hearths in Christen- 
dom 180 

The fires are quenched, to be again 

Rekindled from the sun, that high 

Is dancing in the cloudless sky. 

The churches are all decked with 
flowers, 

The salutations among men 

Are but the Angel’s words divine, 





‘Christ is arisen!’ and the bells 

Catch the glad murmur, as it 
swells, 

And chant together in their tow: 
ers. 

All hearts are glad; and free from 
care 199 

The faces of the people shine. 

See what a crowd is in the square, 

Gayly and gallantly arrayed: 


ELSIE. 
Let us go back; I am afraid! 


PRINCE HENRY. 

Nay, let us mount the church-steps 
here, 

Under the doorway’s sacred shad- 
Ow; 

We can see all things, and be freer 

From the crowd that madly heaves 
and presses! 


ELSIE. 


What a gay pageant! what bright 
dresses ! 

It looks like a flower-besprinkled 
meadow. 200 

What is that yonder on the square? 


PRINCE HENRY. 

A puipit in the open air, 

And a Friar, who is preaching to 
the crowd 

In a voice so deep and clear and 
loud, 

That, if we listen, and give heed, 

His lowest words will reach the 
ear. 


FRIAR CUTHBERT, gesticulating 
and cracking a postilion’s whip. 


What ho! good people! do you not 


hear? 

Dashing along at the top of his 
speed, 

Booted and spurred, on his jaded 
steed, 

A courier comes with words of 
cheer. 210 


Courier! what is the news, I pray? 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 





559 





‘Christ is arisen!’ Whence come 
you? ‘From court.’ 

Then I do not believe it; you say 
it in sport. 
Cracks his whip again. 

Ah, here comes another, riding this 
way ; 

We soon shall know what he has 
to say. 

Courier! what are the tidings to- 
day ? 

*Christ is arisen!’ Whence come 
you? ‘From town.’ 

Then I do not believe it; away 
with you, clown. 

Cracks his whip more violently. 

And here comes a third, who is 
spurring amain ; 

What news do you bring, with your 
loose-hanging rein, 220 

Your spurs wet with blood, and 
your bridle with foam ? 

‘Christ is arisen!’ Whence come 
you? ‘From Rome.’ 

Ah, now I believe. He is risen, 
indeed. 

Ride on with the news, at the top 
of your speed! 

Great applause among the crowd. 

To come back to my text! When 
the news was first spread 

That Christ was arisen indeed 
from the dead, 

Very great was the joy of the 
angels in heaven; 

And as great the dispute as to who 
should carry 

The tidings thereof to the Virgin 
Mary, 

Pierced to the heart with sorrows 
seven. 230 

Old Father Adam was first to pro- 
pose, 


As being the author of all our 


woes; 


But he was refused, for fear, said’ 


they, 


He would stop to eat apples on 


the way! 
Abel came next, but petitioned in 
Vain, 


Because he might meet with his 
brother Cain! 

Noah, too, was refused, lest his 
weakness for wine 

Should delay him at every tavern 
sign ; 

And John the Baptist could not 
get a vote, 

On account of his old-fashioned 
camel’s-hair coat ; 240 

And the Penitent Thief, who died 
on the cross, 

Was reminded that all his bones 
were broken! 

Till at last, when each in turn had 
spoken, 

The company being still at loss, 

The Angel, who rolled away the 
stone, 

Was sent to the sepulchre, all 
alone. 

And filled with glory that gloomy 
prison, 

And said to the Virgin, ‘ The Lord 
is arisen!’ 


The Cathedral bells ring. 


But hark! the bells are beginning 
to chime ; 

And I feel that I am growing 
hoarse. 250 

I will put an end to my discourse, 

And leave the rest for some other 
time. 

For the bells themselves are the 

best of preachers ; 

brazen lips are learned 

teachers, 

From their pulpits of stone, in the 
upper air, 

Sounding aloft, without crack or 
flaw, 

Shriller than trumpets under the 
Law, 

Now a sermon, and now a prayer, 

The clangorous hammer is the 


Their 


tongue, 
This way, that way, beaten and 
swung, 260 


That from inouth of brass, as from 
mouth of Gold, 


560 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





May be taught the Testaments, 
New and Old. 

And above it the great cross-beam 
of wood 

Representeth the Holy Rood, 

Upon which, like the bell, our 
hopes are hung. 

And the wheel wherewith it is 
swayed and rung 

Is the mind of man, that round 
and round 

Sways, and maketh the tongue to 
sound! 

And the rope, with its twisted cor- 
dage three, 

Denoteth the Scriptural Trinity 

Of Morals, and Symbols, and His- 
tory; 271 

And the upward and downward 
motion show 

That we touch upon matters high 
and low; 

And the constant change and 
transmutation 

Of action and of contemplation, 

Downward, the Scripture brought 
from on high, 

Upward, exalted again 
sky ; 

Downward, the literal interpreta- 
tion, 

Upward, the Vision and Mystery! 


to the 


And now, my hearers, to make an 
end, 280 

I have only one word more to 
Say ; 

In the church, in honor of Easter 
days | 

Will be presented a Miracle Play ; 

And I hope you will all have the 
grace to attend. 

Christ bring us at last to his feli- 
city ! 

Pax vobiscum! et Benedicite! 


_IN THE CATHEDRAL. 


CHANT. 
Kyrie Eleison! 
Christe Eleison! 


ELSIE. 
Iam at home here in my Father’s 
house! 
These paintings of the Saints upon 
the walls 290 
Have all familiar and benignant 
faces. 


PRINCE HENRY. 

The portraits of the family of 
God! 

Thine own hereafter shall be 
placed ainong them. 

ELSIE. 

How very grand it is and wonder- 
ful! 

Never have I beheld a church so 
splendid! 

Such columns, and such arches, 
and such windows, 

So many tombs and statues in the 
chapels, 

And under them so many confes. 
sionals. 

They must be for the rich. I 
should not like 

To tell my sins in such a church 
as this. 300 

Who built it? 


PRINCE HENRY. 


A great master of his craft, 

Erwin von Steinbach; but not he 
alone, 

For many generations labored with 
him. 

Children that came to see these 
Saints in stone, 

As day by day out of the blocks 
they rose, 

Grew old and died, and still the 
work went on, 

And on, and on, and is not yet 
completed. 

The generation that succeeds our 
own 

Perhaps may finish it. The archi- 
tect 

Built his great heart into these 
sculptured stones, 31a 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 





And with him toiled his children, 
and their lives 

Were builded, with his own, into 
the walls, 

As offerings unto God. You see 
that statue 

Fixing its joyous, but deep-wrin- 


kled eyes 

Upon the Pillars of the Angels 
yonder. 

That is the image of the master, 
carved 

By the fair hand of his own child, 
Sabina. 

ELSIE. 


How beautiful is the column that 
he looks at! 


PRINCE HENRY. 


That, too, she sculptured. At the 
base of it 

Stand the Evangelists ; above their 
heads 320 

Four Angels blowing upon marble 
trumpets, 

And over them the blessed Christ, 
surrounded 

By his attendant ministers, uphold- 
ing 

The instruments of his passion. 


ELSIE, 


O my Lord: 
Would I could leave behind me 
upon earth 
Some monument to thy glory, such 
as this! 


PRINCE HENRY. 


A greater monument than this 
theu leavest 

In thine own life, all purity and 
love! 

See, too, the Rose, above the west- 
ern portal 

Resplendent with a thcusand gor- 
geous colors, 330 

The perfect flower of Gothic love- 
iiness! 


561 





ELSIE. 

And, in the gallery, the long line 
of statues, 

Christ with his twelve Apostles 
watching us! 


A BISHOP in armor, booted and 
spurred, passes with his train. 


PRINCE HENRY. 

But come away; we have not time 
to look. 

The crowd already fills the church, 
and yonder 

Upon a stage, a herald with a trum. . 
pet, 

Clad like the Angel Gabriel, pro- 
claims 

The Mystery that will now be re- 
presented. 


THE NATIVITY 
A MIRACLE-PLAY 
INTROITUS 


PRAECO. 


Come, good people, all and each, 

Come and listen to our speech! 

In your presence here I stand, 34: 

With a trumpet in my hand, 

To announce the Easter Play, 

Which we represent to-day ! 

First of all we shall rehearse, 

In our action and our verse, 

The Nativity of our Lord, 

As written in the old record 

Of the Protevangelion, 

So that he who reads may run! 
Blows his trumpet. 


I. HEAVEN,’ 


MERCY, at the feet of God. 


Have pity, Lord! be not afraid 
To save mankind, whom thou hast 


made, 352 
Nor let the souls that were be- 
trayed 


Perish eternally! 


562 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 


i RE ST I FSR RSE RS CANT TT OTS FE 


JUSTICE. 


It cannot be, it must not be! 
When in the garden placed by 
thee, 
The fruit of the forbidden tree 
He ate, and he must die! 


MERCY. 
Have pity, Lord! let penitence 
Atone for disobedience, 360 
Nor let the fruit of man’s offence 
Be endless misery! 


JUSTICE. 


’ What penitence proportionate 

Can e’er be felt for sin so great? 

Of the forbidden fruit he ate, 
And damnéd must he be! 


GOD. 
He shall be saved, if that within 


The bounds of earth one free from 


sin 


Be found, who for his kith and. 


| Here MARY looketh around her, 
37°} 


kin 
Will suffer martyrdom. 


THE FOUR VIRTUES. 


Lord! we have searched the world 
around, 
From centre to the utmost bound, 
But no such mortal can be found; 
Despairing, back we come. 


WISDOM. 


No mortal, but a God made man, 

Can ever carry out this plan, 

Achieving what none other can, 
Salvation unto ali! 


GOD. 


{<0, then, O my beloved Son! 

It can by thee alone be done; 

By thee the victory shall be won 
Over Satan and the Fall! 


Here the ANGEL GABRIEL shall 
leave Paradise and fly towards 
the earth ; the jaws of Hell open 
below,and the Devils walk about, 
making a great noise. 


380, 


II MARY AT THE WELL 


MARY. 
Along the garden walk, and 
thence 
Through the wicket in the garden 
fence, 


I steal with quiet pace, 
My pitcher at the well to fill, 
That les so deep and cool and 
still 
In this sequestered place. 


These sycamores 
around; 
I see no face, I hear no sound, 39¢ 
Save bubblings of the spring, 
And my companions, who, within, 


keep guard 


| The threads of gold and scarlet. 


spin, 
And at their labor sing. 
THE ANGEL GABRIEL. 
Hail, Virgin Mary, full of grace! 


trembling, and then saith: 


MARY. 


Who is it speaketh in this place, 
With such a gentle voice? 


GABRIEL. 
The Lord of heaven is with thee 
now! 
Blessed among all women thou, 
Who art his holy choice! 400 


MARY, setting down the pitcher. 


What can this mean? No one is 
near, 


| And yet, such sacred words I hear, 


I almost fear to stay. 


Here the ANGEL, appearing to hen 
shall say: 


GABRIEL. 


Fear not, O Mary! but believe! 

For thou, a Virgin, shalt conceive 
A child this very day. 

Fear not, O Mary! from the sky 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


_———— 


The majesty of the Most High 
Shall overshadow thee! 


MARY. 


Behold the handmaid of the Lord! 
According to thy holy word, 411 
So be it unto me! 


Here the Devils shall again make 
a great noise, under the stage. 


III THE ANGELS OF THE SEVEN 
PLANETS, BEARING THE STAR 
OF BETHLEHEM. 


THE ANGELS. 


The Angels of the Planets Seven, 
Across the shining fields of heaven 
The natal star we bring! 
Dropping our sevenfold virtues 
down 
As priceless jewels in the crown 
Of Christ, our new-born King. 


RAPHAEL. 


Tam the Angel of the Sun, 
Whose flaming wheels began to 
run 420 
When God’s almighty breath 
Said to the darkness and the Night, 
Let there be light! and there was 
light! 
I bring the gift of Faith. 


ONAFIEL. 


Iam the Angel of the Moon, 
Darkened to be rekindled soon 
Beneath the azure cope! 
Nearest to earth, it is my ray 
That best illumes the midnight 
way; 
I bring the gift of Hope! 430 


ANAEL. 


The Angel of the Star of Love, 
The Evening Star, that shines 
above 
The place where lovers be, 
Above all happy hearths and 
homes, 


563 





On roofs of thatch, or golden 
domes, 
I give him Charity ! 


ZOBIACHEL. 


The Planet Jupiter is mine! 
The mightiest star of all that shine, 
Except the sun alone! 
He is the High Priest of the Dove, 
And sends, from his great throne 
above, 441 
Justice, that shall atone! 


MICHAEL. 


The Planet Mercury, whose place 
Is nearest to the sun in space, 
Is my allotted sphere! 
And with celestial ardor swift 
I bear upon my hands the gift 
Of heavenly Prudence here! 


URIEL. 


IT am the Minister of Mars, 
The strongest star among the 
stars! 450 
My songs of power prelude 
The march and battle of man’s 
life, 
And for the suffering and the strife, 
I give him Fortitude! 


ORIFEL. 


The Angel of the uttermost 
Of all the shining, heavenly host, 
From the far-off expanse 
Of the Saturnian, endless space 
I bring the last, the crowning 
grace, 


The gift of Temperance! 460 


A sudden light shines from the 
windows of the stable in the vil- 
lage below. 


IV. THE WISE MEN OF THE EAST. 


The stable of the Inn. The VIR- 
GIN and CHILD. Three Gypsy 
Kings, GASPAR, MELCHIOR, 
and BELSHAZZAR, shall come 
in. 


804 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





GASPAR, 

Hail to thee, Jesus of Nazareth! 

Though in a manger thou draw 
breath, 

Thou art greater than Life and 
Death, 

Greater than Joy or Woe! 
This cross upon the line of life 


Portendeth struggle, toil, and 
strife, 

And through a region with peril 
rife 

In darkness shalt thou go! 
MELCHIOR. 

Hail to thee, King of Jerusa- 
lem! 

Though humbly born in Bethle- 
hem, 470 


A sceptre and a diadem 
Await thy brow and hand! 
The sceptre is a simple reed, 
The crown will make thy temples 
bleed, 
And in thine hour of greatest need, 
Abashed thy subjects stand! 


BELSHAZZAR. 


Hail to thee, Christ of Christen- 
dom! 
O’er all the earth thy kingdom 
come! 
From distant Trebizond to Rome 
Thy name shall men adore! 480 
Peace and good-will among all 
men, 
The Virgin has returned again, 
Returned the old Saturnian reign 
And Golden Age once more. 


THE CHILD CHRIST. 


Jesus, the Son of God, am I, 

Born here to suffer and to die 

According to the prophecy, 
That other men may live! 


THE VIRGIN. 


And now these clothes, 
wrapped Him, take 

And keep them precious, for his 
sake; 490 


that 


Our benediction thus we make, 
Naught else have we to give. 
She gives them swaddling-clothes, 
and they depart. 


V. THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. 


Here JOSEPH shall come in, lead 
ing an ass,on which are seated 
MARY and the CHILD. 


MARY. 


Here will we rest us, under these 
O’erhanging branches of the trees, 
Where robins chant their Lita- 
nies 
And canticles of joy. 


JOSEPH. 
My saddle-girths have given way 
With trudging through the heat 
to-day ; 
To you I think it is but play 


To ride and hold the boy. 500 
MARY. 
Hark! how the robins shout and 


sing, 
As if to hail their infant King! 
I will alight at yonder spring 
To wash his little coat. 


JOSEPH. 


And T will hobble well the ass, 
Lest, being loose upon the grass, 
He should escape; for, by the 
mass, 
He’s nimble as a goat. 


Here MARY shall alight and go to 
the spring. 


MARY. 


O Joseph! I am much afraid, 

For men are sleeping in the shade; 
I fear that we shall be waylaid, 5rx 
And robbed and beaten sore! 
Here a band of robbers shall be 
seen sleeping, two of whom shal 

rise and come forward, 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 





- DUMACHUS. 
Cock’s soul! deliver up your gold! 


JOSEPH. 
I pray you, Sirs, let go your hold! 
You see that I am weak and old, 
Of wealth I have no store. 


DUMACHUS. 
Give up your money! 


TITUS. 


Prithee cease. 
Let these people go in peace. 


DUMACHUS. 


First let them pay for tbeir release, 
And then go on their way. 520 


TITUS. 


These forty groats I give in fee, 
lt thou wilt only silent be. 


MARY. 


May God be merciful to thee 
Upon the Judgment Day! 


JESUS. 


When thirty years shall have gone 
by, 
I at Jerusalem shall die. 
By Jewish hands exalted high 
On the accursed tree, 
Then on my right and my left side, 
These thieves shall both be cruci- 
fied, 530 
And Titus thenceforth shall abide 
In paradise with me. 


Here a great rumor of trumpets 
and horses, like the noise of a 
king with his army, and the 
roblers shall take flight. 


VI. THE SLAUGHTER OF THE 


INNOCENTS. 


KING HEROD. 


Potz-tausend! Himmel-sacrament ! 
Filled am I with great wonderment 


565 


At this unwelcome news! 
Am I not Herod? Who shall dare 
My crown to take, my sceptre 
bear, 
As king among the Jews? 


Here he shall stride up and down 
and flourish his sword. 


What ho! I fain would drink a 
can 
Of the strong wine of Canaan! 
The wine of Helbon bring — 541 
I purchased at the Fair of Tyre, 
As red as blood, as hot as fire, 
And fit for any king! 
He quajjs great goblets of wine. 


Now at the window will I stand, 
While in the street the arméd 
band 
The little children slay ; 
The babe just born in Bethlehem 
Will surely slaughtered be with 
them, 

Nor live another day! 550 
Here a voice of lamentation shall 
be heard in the street. 
RACHEL. 


O wicked king! O cruel speed! 
To do this most unrighteous deedJ 
My children all are slain! 


HEROD. 


Ho seneschal! another cup! 
With wine of Sorek fill it up! 
I would a bumper drain! 


RAHAB. 


May maledictions fall and biast 
Thyself and lineage, to the last 
Of all thy kith and kin! 


HEROD. 


Another goblet! quick! and stir 
Pomegranate juice and drops of 
myrrh 561 
And calamus therein} 


SOLDIERS, in the street. 
Give up thy child into our handsi 


506 





It is King Herod who commands 
That he should thus be slain! 


THE NURSE MEDUSA. 
O monstrous men! What have ye 
done! 
It is King Herod’s only son 
That ye have cleft in twain! 


HEROD. 

Ah, luckless day! What words of 

fear 

Are these that smite upon my ear 
With such a doleful sound! 571 

What torments rack my heart and 

head! 

Would I were dead! would I were 

dead, 
And buried in the ground! 

He falls down and writhes as 
though eaten by worms. Hell 
opens, and SATAN and ASTA- 
ROTH come forth, and drag him 
down. 


VIL JESUS AT PLAY WITH HIS 
SCHOOLMATES. 


JESUS. 


The shower is over. Let us play, 
And make some sparrows out of 
clay, 
Down by the river’s side. 


JUDAS. 
See, how the stream has over- 
flowed 
Its banks, and o’er the meadow 
road 


Is spreading far and wide! 580 

They draw water out of the river 
by channels, and form little 
pools. JESUS makes twelve 
sparrows of clay, and the other 
boys do the same. 


JESUS. 


#,00K! look how prettily I make 
These little sparrows by the lake 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 


omg 


Bend down their necks and 
drink ! 
Now will I make them sing and 
soar 
So far, they shall return no more 
Unto this river’s brink. 


JUDAS. 
That canst thou not! 
but clay, 
They cannot sing, nor fly away 
Above the meadow lands! 


They are 


JESUS. 

Fiy, fly! ye sparrows! you are 
free! 598 

And while you live, remember 
me, 


Who made you with my hands. 


Here JESUS shall clap his hands, 
and the sparrows shall fly away, 
chirruping. 


JUDAS. 


Thou art a sorcerer, I know; | 
Oft has my mother told me so, 
I will not play with thee! 


He strikes JESuS inthe right side 


JESUS. 


Ah, Judas! thou hast smote my 
side, 
And when I shall be crucified, 
There shall I pierced be! 


Here JOSEPH shall come in and 
say: 


JOSEPH. 


Ye wicked boys! 
play, 
And break the holy Sabbath day? 
What, think ye, will your mothers 
Say 601 
To see you in such plight! 
In such a sweat and such a heaf. 
With ali that mud upon your 
feet! 
There’s not a beggar in the street 
Makes such a sorry sizht! 


why do ye 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 





VIII. THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. 


The RABBI BEN ISRAEL, sitting 
on a high stool, with a long 
beard, and a rod in his hand. 


RABBI. 


Iam the Rabbi Ben Israel, 
Throughout this village known full 
well, 
And, as my scholars all will tell, 
Learned in things divine ; 610 
The Cabala and Talmud hoar 
Than all the prophets prize I 
more, 
For water is all Bible lore, 
But Mishna is strong wine. 


My fame extends from West to 
East, 

And always, at the Purim feast, 

Tam as drunk as any beast 
That wallows in his sty ; 

The wine it so elateth me, 

That I no difference can see 

Between ‘Accursed Haman be!’ 
And ‘ Blessed be Mordecai!’ 


620 


Come hither, Judas Iscariot ; 
Say, if thy lesson thou hast got 
From the Rabbinical Book or 
not. 
Why howl the dogs at night? 


JUDAS. 


In the Rabbinical Book, it saith 
The dogs howl, when with icy 


breath 
Great Sammael, the Angel of 
Death, 
Takes through the town his 
flight! 630 
RABBI. 
Well, boy! now say, if thou art 
wise, 


When the Angel of Death, who is 
full of eyes, 
Comes where a sick man dying 
lies, 
What doth he to the wight ? 


567 


JUDAS. 
He stands beside him, dark and 
tall, 
Holding a sword, from which doth 
fall 
Into his mouth a drop of gall, 
And so he turneth white. 


RABBI. 


And now, my Judas, say to me 
What the great Voices Four may 


be, 640 

That quite across the world do 
flee, 

And are not heard by men? 
JUDAS. 

The Voice of the Sun in heaven’s 
dome, 

The Voice of the Murmuring of 
Rome, 

The Voice of a Soul that goeth 
home, 


And the Angel of the Rain! 


RABBI. 


Right are thine answers every one! 
Now little Jesus, the carpenter’s 
son, 
Let us see how thy task is done; 
Canst thou thy letters say? 6s0 


JESUS. 
Aleph. 


RABBI. 


What next? Do not stop yet! 
Go on with all the alphabet. 
Come, Aleph, Beth; dost thou for- 
get? 
Cock’s soul! 
play! 


thou’dst rather 


JESUS. 


What Aleph means I fain would 
know, 
Before I any farther go! 


RAPBI, 


Oh, by Saint Peter! wouldst thou 
So? 


568 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





Come hither, boy, to me. 
As surely as the letter Jod 
Once cried aloud, and spake to 


God, 660 
So surely shalt thou feel this 
rod, 


And punished shalt thou be! 


Here RABBI BEN ISRAEL shall 
lift up his rod to strike JESUS, 
and his right arm shall be par- 
alyzed. 


IX. CROWNED WITH FLOWERS. 


JESUS sitting among his play- 
mates crowned with flowers as 
their King. 


BOYS. 
We spread our garments on the 
ground! 
With fragrant flowers thy head is 
crowned 
While like a guard we stand 
around, 


And hail thee as our King! 
Thou art the new King of the 
Jews! 
Nor let the passers-by refuse 
To bring that homage which men 
use 
To majesty to bring. 670 
Here a traveller shall go by, and 
the boys shall lay hold of his 
garments and say: 


BOYS. ‘ 


Come hither! and all reverence 
pay 
Unto our monarch, crowned to- 
day ! 
Then go rejoicing on your way, 
In all prosperity! 


TRAVELLER. 


Hail to the King of Bethlehem, 
Who weareth in his diadem 


The yellow crocus for the gem 
Of his authority! 


He passes by ; and others come in, 
bearing on a litter a sick child. 


BOYS. 


Set down the litter and draw near! 
The King of Bethlehem is here! 
What ails the child, who seems ta 
fear 681 
That we shall do him harm ? 


THE BEARERS. 


He climbed up to the robin’s nest, 
And out there darted, from his 
rest, 
A serpent with a crimson crest, 
And stung him in the arm. 


JESUS. 
Bring him to me, and let me 
feel 
The wounded place ; my touch can 
heal 
The sting of serpents, and can 
steal 


The poison from the bite! 690 


He touches the wound, and the 
boy begins to cry. 


Cease to lament! I can fore- 
see 

That thou hereafter known shalt 
be, 


Among the men who follow me, 
As Simon the Canaanite! 


EPILOGUE. 


In the after part of the day 

Will be represented another play, 

Of the Passion of our Blessed 
Lord, 

Beginning directly after Nones! 

At the close of which we shall ac 
cord, 

By way of benison and reward, 

The sight of a holy Martyr’s 
bones! 701 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 569 





IV 
THE ROAD TO HIRSCHAU 


PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE, with their attendants on horseback. 


ELSIE, 


Onward and onward the highway runs to the distant city, impatiently 
bearing 
Tidings of human joy and disaster, of love and of hate, of doing and 
daring! 
PRINCE HENRY. 
This life of ours is a wild eolian harp of many a joyous strain, 
But under them all there ruus a loud perpetual wail, as of souls in pain. 


ELSIE. 


Faith alone can interpret life, and the heart that aches and bleeds with 
the stigma 
Of pain, alone bears the likeness of Christ, and can comprehend its dark 
enigma, 
PRINCE HENRY. 


Man is selfish, and seeketh pleasure with little care of what may be- 
tide, 
Else why am I travelling here beside thee, a demon that rides by an 
angel’s side ? 
ELSIE. 
All the hedges are white with dust, and the great dog under the creak- 
ing wain 
Hangs his head in the lazy heat, while onward the horses toil and 
strain. 10 
PRINCE HENRY. 
Now they stop at the wayside inn, and the wagoner laughs with the 
landlord’s daughter, 
While out of the dripping trough the horses distend their leathern 
sides with water. 
ELSIE. 
All through life there are wayside inns, where man may refresh his 
soul with love; 
Even the lowest may quench his thirst at rivulets fed by springs from 
above. 
PRINCE HENRY. 
Yonder, where rises the cross of stone, our journey along the highway 
ends, 
And over the fields, by a bridle path, down into the broad green valley 
descends. 
ELSIE. 
I am not sorry to leave behind the beaten road with its dust and heat; 
The air will be sweeter far, and the turf will be softer under our horses! 
feet. 
They turn down a green lane, 


570 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





ELSIE. 
Sweet is the air with the budding haws, and the valley stretching for 


miles below 


Is white with blossoming cherry-trees, as if just covered with lightest 


Snow. 


2a 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Over our heads a white cascade is gleaming against the distant hill; 
‘We cannot hear it, nor see it move, but it hangs like a banner when 


winds are Still. 


ELSIE. 
Damp and cool is this deep ravine, and cool the sound of the brook by 


our side! 


What is this castle that rises above us, and lords it over a land so wide? 


PRINCE HENRY. 
Tt is the home of the Counts of Calva; well have I known these scenes 


of old, 


Well I remember each tower and turret, remember the brooklet, the 


wood, and the wold. 


ELSIE. 
Hark! from the little village below us the bells of the church are ring- 


ing for rain! 


Priests and peasants in long procession come forth and kneel on the 


arid plain. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


They have not long to wait, for I see in the south uprising a little cloud, 
That before the sun shall be set will cover the sky above us as witha 


shroud. 


30 


They pass on. 


THE CONVENT OF HIRSCHAU IN 
THE BLACK FOREST. 


The Convent cellar. FRIAR CLAUS 
comes in with alight and a bas- 
ket of empty flagons. 


FRIAR CLAUS. 


I always enter this sacred place 
With a thoughtful, solemn, and 
reverent pace, 
Pausing long enough on each stair 
To breathe an ejaculatory prayer, 
And a benediction on the vines 
That produce these various sorts 
of wines ! 
For my part, 
tent 
That we have got through with the 
tedious Lent! 


I am well con- 


Fasting is all very well for those 

Who have to contend with invis‘- 
ble foes; 40 

But I am quite sure it does not 
agree 

With a quiet, peaceable man like 
me, 

Who am not of that nervous and 
meagre kind, 

That are always distressed in body 
and mind! 

And at times it really does me 
good 

To come down among this brother. 
hood, 

Dwelling forever underground, 

Silent, contemplative, round and 
sound; 

Each one old, and brown with 
mould, 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


571 





But filled to the lips with the ardor 
of youth, 50 

With the latent power and love of 
truth, 

And with virtues fervent and mani- 
fold. 


I have heard it said, that at 
Easter-tide 

When buds are swelling on every 
side, 

And the sap begins to move in the 
vine, 

Then in all cellars, far and wide, 

The oldest as well as the newest 
wine 

Begins to stir itself, and ferment, 

With a kind of revolt and discon- 
tent 

At being so long in darkness pent, 

And fain would burst from its 
sombre tun 61 

To bask on the hillside in the sun; 

As in the bosom of us poor friars, 

The tumult of half-subdued de- 


sires 

For the world that we have left 
behind 

Disturbs at times all peace of 
mind! 


And now that we have lived 
through Lent, 

My duty it is, as often before, 

To open awhile the prison-door, 

And give these restless spirits 
vent. 70 


Now here is a cask that stands 


alone, 

And has stood a hundred years or 
more, 

Its beard of cobwebs, long and 
hoar, 

Trailing and sweeping along the 
floor, 

Like Barbarossa, who sits in his 
cave, 

Taciturn, sombre, sedate, and 
grave, 


Till his beard has grown through 
the table of stone! 


It is of the quick and not of the 
dead! 

In its veins the blood is hot and 
red, 

And a heart still beats in those 
ribs of oak 80 

That time may have tamed, but 
has not broke! 

It comes from Bacharach on the 
Rhine, 

Is one of the three best kinds of 
wine, 

And costs some hundred florins 
the ohm ; 

But that I do not consider dear, 

When I remember that every year 

Four butts are sent to the Pope of 
Rome. 

And whenever a goblet thereof I 
drain, 

The old rhyme keeps running in 
my brain: 


At Bacharach on the Rhine, 90 
At Hochheim on the Main, 

And at Wurzburg on the Stein, 
Grow the three best kinds of wine! 


They are all good wines, and 
better far 

Than those of the Neckar, or those 
of the Ahr. 

In particular, Wiirzburg well may 
boast 

Of its blessed wine of the Holy 
Ghost, 

Which of all wines I like the most. 

This I shall draw for the Abbot’s 
drinking, 

Who seems to be much of my way 
of thinking. 100 

Fills a flagon. 

Ah! how the streamlet laughs and. 
sings ! 

Whata delicious fragrance springs 

From the deep flagon, while it fills, 

As of hyacinths and daffodils! 

Between this cask and the Abbot’s 
lips 

Many have been the sips snd 
slips; 


572 


CHRISEUS: 


A MYSTERY 





Many nave heen the draughts of 
wie, 

On their way to his, that have 
stopped at mine; 

And many a time my soul has 
hankered 

For a deep draught out of his 
silver tankard, 110 

When it should have been busy 
with other affairs, 

Less with its longings and more 
with its prayers. 

But now there is no such awkward 
condition, 

No danger of death and eternal 
perdition ; 

So here’s to the Abbot and Bro- 
thers all, 

Who dwell in this convent of Peter 
and Paul! 

He drinks. 


O cordial delicious! O soother of 
pain! 

It flashes like sunshine into my 
brain! 

A benison rest on the Bishop who 
sends 


Such a fudder of wine as this to 
his friends! 120 

And now a flagon for such as may 
ask 

A draught from the noble Bach- 
arach cask, 

And I will be gone, though I know 
full well 

The cellar’s a cheerfuller place 
than the cell. 

Behold where he stands, all sound 
and good, 

Browa and old in his oaken hood: 

Silent he seems externally 

As any Carthusian monk may be: 

But within, what a spirit of deep 
unrest! 

What a seething and simmering 
in his breast! 130 

As if the heaving of his great 
heart 

Would burst his belt of oak apart! 

Let me unloose this button of 
wood, 


And quiet a little his turbulent 

mood. 
Sets it running. 

See! how its currents gleam and 
shine, 

As if they had caught the purple 
hues 

Of autumn sunsets on the Rhine, 

Descending and mingling with the 
dews; 

Or as if the grapes were stained 
with the blood 

Of the innocent boy, who, some 
years back, 140 

Was taken and crucified by the 
Jews, 

In that ancient town of Bacha- 
rach; 

Perdition upon those infidel Jews, 

In that ancient town of Bacha- 
rach! 

The beautiful town, that gives us 
wine 

With the fragrant odor of Musca- 
dine! 

I should deem it wrong to let this 
pass 

Without first touching my lips to 
the glass, 

For here in the midst of the cur- 
rent I stand 

Like the stone Pfalz in the midst 
of the river, 150 

Taking toll upon either hand, 

And much more grateful to the 
giver. 

He drinks. 

Here, now, is a very inferior kind, 

Such as in any town you may find, 

Such as one might imagine would 
suit 

The rascal who drank wine out of 
a boot. 

And, after all, it was not a crime, 

For he won thereby Dorf Hiiffel- 
sheim. 

A jolly old toper! who at a pull 

Could drink a postilion’s jack-boot 


full, 160 
And ask with a laugh, when that 
was done, 


THE® GOLDEN, LEGEND 


573 





If the fellow had left the other 


one! 

This wine is as good as we can 
afford 

To the friars, who sit at the lower 
board, 

And cannot distinguish bad from 
good, 

And are far better off than if they 
could, 

Being rather the rude disciples of 
beer 

Than of anything more refined and 
dear ! 


Fills the flagon and departs. 


THE SCRIPTORIUM. 


FRIAR PAciIFiIcus transcribing 
and illuminating. 


FRIAR PACIFICUS. 


It is growing dark! Yet one line 
more, 

And then my work for to-day is 
o'er. 170 

I come again to the name of the 
Lord! 

Ere I that awful name record, 

That is spoken so lightly among 
men, 

Let me pause awhile, and wash 
my pen; 

Pure from blemish and blot must 
it be 

When it writes that word of mys- 
tery ! 


Thus have I labored on and on, 

Nearly through the Gospel of 
John. 

Can it be that from the lips 

Of this same gentle Evangelist, 180 

That Christ himself perhaps has 
kissed, 

Came the dread Apocalypse! - 

It has a very awful look, 

As it stands there at the end of 
the book, 

Like the sun in an eclipse. 


Ah me! when I think of that vi- 
sion divine, 

Think of writing it, line by line, 

Istand in awe of the terrible curse, 

Like the trump of doom, in the 
closing verse! 

God forgive me! if ever I 190 

Take aught from the book of that 
Prophecy, 

Lest my part too should be taken 
away 

From the Book of Life on the 
Judgment Day. 

This is well written, though I say 
it! 

I should not be afraid to display 
it 

In open day, on the selfsame shelf 

With the writings of St. Thecla 
herself, 

Or of Theodosius, who of old 

Wrote the Gospels in letters of 


gold! 
That goodly folio standing yon, 
der, 200 


Without a single blot or blunder, 

Would not bear away the palm 
from mine, 

If we should compare them line 
for line. 


There, now, is an initial letter ! 

Saint Ulric himself never made a 
better ! 

Finished down to the leaf and the 
snail, 

Down to the eyes on the peacock's 
tail! 

And now, as I turn the volume 
over, 

And see what lies between cover 
and cover, 

What treasures of art these pages 
hold, 216 

All ablaze with crimson and gold, 

God forgive me! I seem to feel 

A certain satisfaction steal 

Into my heart, and into my brain 

As if my talent had not lain 

Wrapped in a napkin, and all in 
vain, 


574 


Yes, I might almost say to the 
Lord, 

Here is a copy of thy Word, 

Written out with much toil and 
pain; 

Take it, O Lord, and let it be 220 

£s something I have done for 
thee! 

He looks from the window. 

How sweet the air is! How fair 
the scene! 

TI wish I had as lovely a green 

To paint my landscapes and my 
leaves! 

How the swallows twitter under 
the eaves ! 

There, now, there is one in hernest: 

I can just catch a glimpse of her 
head and breast, 

And will sketch her thus, in her 
quiet nook, 

For the margin of my Gospel book, 

He makes a sketch. 

Iecan see no more. Through the 
valley yonder 230 

A shower is passing; I hear the 
thunder 

Mutter its curses in the air, 

The devil’s own and only prayer! 

The dusty road is brown with rain, 

And, speeding on with might and 
main, 

Hitherward rides a gallant train. 

They do not parley, they cannot 
wait, 

But hurry in at the convent gate. 

What a fair lady! and beside her 

What a handsome, graceful, noble 
rider! 240 

Now she gives him her hand to 
alight ; 

They will beg a shelter for the 
night. 

I will go down to the corridor, 

And try to see that face once 
more ; 

It will do for the face of some 
beautiful Saint, 

Or for one of the Maries I shall 
paint. 

Goes out. 





CHRISTUS? -AcMYS TERY 


THE CLOISTERS. 


The ABBOT ERNESTUS pacing te 
and fro. 


ABBOT. 


Slowly, slowly up the wall 

Steals the sunshine, steals the 
shade 

Evening damps begin to fall, 

Evening shadows are displayed. 

Round me, o’er me, every where, 251 

All the sky is grand with clouds, 

And athwart the evening air 

Wheel the swallows home in 
crowds. 

Shafts of sunshine from the west 

Paint the dusky windows red; 

Darker shadows, deeper rest, 

Underneath and overhead. 

Darker, darker, and more wan, 

In my breast the shadows fall; 260 

Upward steals the life of man, 

As the sunshine from the wall. 

From the wall into the sky, 

From the roof along the spire; 

Ah, the souls of those that die 

Are but sunbeams lifted higher. 


Enter PRINCE HENRY. 


PRINCE HENRY. 
Christ is arisen ! 


ABBOT. 


Amen! He is arisent 
His peace be with you! 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Here it reigns forever! 

The peace of God, that passeth 
understanding, 

Reigns in these cloisters and these 

corridors. 


2790 
Are you Ernestus, Abbot of the 
convent? 
ABBOT. 
Tam. 


PRINCE HENRY. 
And I Prince Henry of Hoheneck, 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 





Who crave your hospitality to- 
hight. 


ABBOT. 


You are thrice welcome to our 
humble walls. 

You do us honor; and we shall re- 
quite it, 

I fear, but poorly, ‘entertaining 
you 

With Paschal eggs, and our poor 
convent wine, 

The remnants of our Easter holi- 
days. 


PRINCE HENRY: 
How fares it with the holy monks 
of Hirschau? 
Are all things well with them? 
ABBOT. 
All things are well. 


PRINCE HENRY. 
A noble convent! I have known 


it long 281 
By the report of travellers. I now 
see 


Their commendations lag behind 
the truth, 

You lie here in the valley of the 
Nagold 

As in a nest: and the still river, 
gliding 


Along its bed, is like an admonition |}: 


How all things pass. Your lands 
are rich and ample, 

And your revenues large. 
benediction 

Rests on your convent. 


God’s 


ABBOT. 


By our charities 
We strive to merit it. Our Lord 
and Master, 290 
When He departed, left us in his 
will, 
As our best legacy on earth, the 
poor! 
These we have always with us; 
had we not, 


575 





Our hearts would grow as hard as 
are these stones. 
PRINCE HENRY. 


If I remember right, the Counts of 
Calva 
Founded your convent. 


ABBOT. 
Even as you say. 


PRINCE HENRY. 
And, if I err not, it is very old. 


ABBOT. 
Within these cloisters lie already 
buried 
Twelve holy Abbots. Underneath 
the flags 


On which we stand, the Abbot 
William lies, 300 
Of blessed memory. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


And whose tomb is that, 
Which bears the brass escutch- 
eon? 


ABBOT. 


A benefactor’s. 
Conrad, a Count of Calva, he who 
stood 
Godfather to our bells. 


PRINCE HENRY. 
Your monks are learned 
And holy men, I trust. 
ABBOT. 
There are among them 


Learned and holy men. Yet in 
this age 

We need another Hildebrand, to 
shake 


And purify us like a mighty wind. 

The world is wicked, and some- 
times I wonder 

God does not lose his patience 
with it wholly, 310 

And shatter it like glass! Even 
here, at times, 


576 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





Within these walls, where all 
should be at peace, 

I have my trials. Time has laid 
his hand 

Upon my heart, gently, not smit- 


ing it, 

But as a harper lays his open 
palm 

Upon his harp, to deaden its vibra- 
tions. 

Ashes are on my head, and on my 
lips 

Sackcloth, and in my breast a 
heaviness : 

And weariness of life, that makes 
me ready 

To say to the dead Abbots under 
us, 320 

‘Make room for me!’ Only I see 
the dusk 

Of evening twilight coming, and 
have not 

Completed half my task; and so 
at times 


The thought of my shortcomings 
in this life 

Falls like a shadow on the life to 
come. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


We must all die, and not the old 
alone; 

The young have no exemption 
from that doom. 


ABBOT. 
Ah, yes! the young may die, but 
the old must! 
That is the difference. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


I have heard much laud 
Of your transcribers. Your Scrip- 
torium 330 
Is famous among all; your manu- 
scripts 
Praised for their beauty and their 
excellence. 


ABBOT. 


That is indeed our boast. 
desire it, 


If you 





You shall behold these treasures, 
And meanwhile 

Shall the Refectorarius bestow 

Your horses and attendants for 
the night. 


Theygoin. The Vesper-bell rings. 


THE CHAPEL. 


Vespers; after which the monks 
retire, a chorister leading an old 
monk who is blind. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


They are all gone, save one who 
lingers, 

Absorbed in 
prayer. 

As if his heart could find no rest, 

At times he beats his heaving 
breast 340 

With clenchéd and convulsive fin- 
gers, 

Then lifts them trembling in the 
air. 

A chorister, with golden hair, 

Guides hitherward his heavy pace. 

Can it be so? Or does my sight 

Deceive me in the uncertain light? 

Ah no! I recognize that face, 

Though Time has touched it in his 
flight, 

And changed the auburn hair to 
white. 

It is Count Hugo of the Rhine, 350 

The deadliest foe of all our race, 

And hateful unto me and mine! 


deep and_ silent 


THE BLIND MONK. 


Who is it that doth stand so near 
His whispered words I almost 
hear? 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Iam Prince Henry of Hoheneck, 

And you, Count Hugo of the 
Rhine! 

IT know you, and I see the sear, 

The brand upon your forehead, 
shine 

And redden like a baleful star ! 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


577 





THE BLIND MONK. 

Count Hugo once, but now the 
wreck 360 

Of what I was. O Hoheneck! 

The passionate will, the pride, the 
wrath 

That bore me headlong on my 
path, 

Stumbled and staggered into fear, 

And failed me in my mad career, 

As a tired steed some evil-doer, 

Alone upon a desolate moor, 

Bewildered, lost, deserted, blind, 

And hearing loud and close be- 


hind 

The overtaking steps of his pur- 
suer. 370 

Then suddenly from the dark there 
came 

A voice that called me by my 
name, 

And said to me, ‘ Kneel down and 
pray!’ 


And so my terror passed away, 

Passed utterly away forever. 

-Contrition, penitence, remorse, 

Came on me, with o’erwhelming 
force ; 

A hope, a longing, an endeavor, 

By days of penance and nights of 
prayer, 

To frustrate and defeat despair! 

Calm, deep, and still is now my 
heart, 381 

With tranquil waters overflowed ; 

A lake whose unseen fountains 
start, 

Where once the 
glowed. 

And you, O Prince of Hoheneck ! 

Have known me in that earlier 
time, 

A man of violence and crime, 

Whose passions brooked no curb 
nor check. 

Behold me now, in gentler mood, 

One of this holy brotherhood. 390 

Give me your hand; here let me 
kneel; 

Make your reproaches sharp as 
steel; 


hot volcano 


Spurn me, and smite 
cheek ; 

No violence can harm the meek, 

There is no wound Christ cannot 
heal! 

Yes; lift your princely hand, and 
take 

Revenge, if *t is revenge you seek ; 

Then pardon me, for Jesus’ sake! 


me on each 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Arise, Count Hugo! let there 
be 

No further strife nor enmity 400 

Between us twain; we both have 
erred! 

Too rash in act, too wroth in word, 

From the beginning have we stood 

In fierce, defiant attitude, 

Each thoughtless of the other’s 
right, 

And each reliant on his might. 

But now our souls are more subs 


dued; 

The hand of God, and not in 
vain, 

Has touched us with the fire of 
pain. 

Let us kneel down and side by 
side 410 


Pray, till our souls are purified, 
And pardon will not be denied! 


They kneel. 


THE REFECTORY. 


Gaudiolum of Monks at midnight. 
LUCIFER disguised as a Friar. 


FRIAR PAUL sings. 


Ave! color vini clari, 

Dulcis potus, non amari, 

Tua nos inebriari 
Digneris potentia! 


FRIAR CUTHBERT. 
Not so much noise, my worthy 
fréres, 
You’ll disturb the Abbot at his 
prayers. 


578 


FRIAR PAUL sings. 
D! quam placens in colore! 
D! quam fragrans in odore! 420 
OD! quam sapidum in ore! 
Dulce lingue vinculum! 


FRIAR CUTHBERT. 


gé should think your tongue had 
broken its chain ! 


FRIAR PAUL sings. 


Felix venter quem intrabis! 

Felix guttur quod rigabis ! 

Felix os quod tu lavabis ! 
Et beata labia! 


FRIAR CUTHBERT. 


Peace! I say, peace! 

Will you never cease! 

You will rouse up the Abbot, I tell 
you again! 430 


FRIAR JOHN. 


No danger! to-night he will let us 
alone, 

As I happen to know he has 
guests of his own. 


FRIAR CUTHBERT. 
Who are they ? 


FRIAR JOHN. 


A German Prince and his train, 
Who arrived here just before the 
rain. 
There is with him a damsel fair to 
see, 
As slender and gracefulas a reed! 
When she alighted from her steed, 


It seemed like a blossom blown: 


from a tree. 


FRIAR CUTHBERT. 
None of your pale-faced girls for 


me ! 
None of your damsels of high de- 
gree! 440 


FRIAR JOHN. 
Come, old fellow, drink down to 
your peg! 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 


—— 


But do not drink any further, J 
beg! 


FRIAR PAUL sings. 


In the days of gold, 
The days of old, 
Crosier of wood 
And bishop of gold! 


FRIAR CUTHBERT. 


What an infernal racket and riot! 

Can you not drink your wine in 
quiet? 

Why fill the convent with such 
scandals, 

As if we were so many drunken 
Vandals ? 456 


FRIAR PAUL continues. 


Now we have changed 
That law so good 

To crosier of gold 
And bishop of wood! 


FRIAR CUTHBERT. 


Well, then, since you are in the 
mood 

To give your noisy humors vent, 

Sing and howl to your heart’s con- 
tent! 


CHORUS OF MONKS. 


Funde vinum, funde ! 

Tanquam sint fluminis unde, 
Nec queras unde, 460 
Sed fundas semper abunde! 


FRIAR JOHN. 


What is the name of yonder friar, 

With an eye that glows like a coal 
of fire, 

And such a black mass of tan- 
gled hair ? 


FRIAR PAUL. 


He who is sitting there, 

With a rollicking, 

Devil may care, 

Free and easy look and air, 

Asif he were used to such feasting 
and frolicking ? 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 





FRIAR JOHN. 
The same. 


FRIAR PAUL. 

He’s astranger. You had better 
ask his name, 470 

And where heis going and whence 
he came. 


FRIAR JOHN. 
Hallo! Sir Friar! 


FRIAR PAUL. 


You must raise your voice a little 
higher, 

He does not seem to hear what 
you say. 

Now, try again! He is looking 
this way. 


FRIAR JOHN. 


Hallo! Sir Friar, 

We wish to inquire 

Whence you came, and where you 
are going, 

And anything else that is worth 
the knowing. 

So be so good as to open your 
head. 480 


LUCIFER. 


Tam a Frenchman born and bred, 

Going on a pilgrimage to Rome. 

My home 

Is the convent of St. Gildas de 
Rhuys, 

Of which, very like, you never 
have heard. 


MONKS. 
Never a word! 


LUCIFER. 


You must know, then, it is in the 
diocese 

Called the Diocese of Vannes, 

In the province of Brittany. 

From the gray rocks of Morbihan 

It overlooks the angry sea; 491 

The very sea-shore where, 

In his great despair, 


579 





Abbot Abelard walked to and fro, 
Filling the night with woe, 
And wailing aloud to the merciless 


seas 

The name of his sweet Heloise, 

Whilst overhead 

The convent windows gleamed as 
red 

As the fiery eyes of the monks 
within, 500 


Who with jovial din 

Gave themselves up to all kinds of 
sin! 

Ha! that is a convent! that is an 
abbey ! 

Over the doors, 

None of your death-heads carved 
in wood, 

None of your Saints looking pious 
and good, 

None of your Patriarchs old and 
shabby ! 

But the heads and tusks of boars, 

And the cells 

Hung all round with the fells 

Of the fallow-deer. 

And then what cheer! 

What jolly, fat friars, 

Sitting round the great, roaring 
fires, 

Roaring louder than they, 

With their strong wines, 

And their concubines, 

And never a bell, 

With its swagger and swell, 

Calling you up with a start of af- 
fright 520 

In the dead of night, 

To send you grumbling down dark 
stairs, 

To mumble your prayers ; 

But the cheery crow 

Of cocks in the yard below, 

After daybreak, an hour or so, 

And the barking of deep-mouthed 
hounds, 

These are the sounds 

That, instead of bells, salute the 
ear. 

And then all day 

Up and away 


510 


539 


580 





Through the forest, hunting the 


deer! 

Ah, my friends! I’m afraid that 
here 

You are a little too pious, a little 
too tame, 


And the more is the shame. 
’T is the greatest folly 

Not to be jolly ; 

That’s what I think! 
Come, drink, drink, 


Drink, and die game! 540 


MONKS. 


And your Abbot What’s-his- 


name? 


LUCIFER. 
Abelard! 


MONKS. 
Did he drink hard ? 


LUCIFER. 


Oh, no! Not he! 

He was a dry old fellow, 

Without juice enough to get thor- 
oughly mellow. 

There he stood, 

Lowering at us in sullen mood, 

As if he had come into Brittany 

Just to reform our brotherhood! 


A roar of laughter. 


But you see 

It never would do! 

For some of us knew a thing or 
two, 

In the Abbey of St. Gildas de 
Rhuys! 

For instance, the great ado 

With old Fulbert’s niece, 

The young and lovely Heloise. 


551 


FRIAR JOHN. 
Stop there, if you please, 

Till we drink to the fair Heloise. 
ALL, drinking and shouting. 
Heloise! Heloise! 560 

The Chapel-bell tolls. , 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





LUCIFER, starting. 
What is that bell for? Are you 
such asses 
As to keep up the fashion of mid- 
night masses? 


FRIAR CUTHBERT. 

It is only a poor, unfortunate bro. 
ther, 

Who is gifted with most miracu- 
lous powers 

Of getting up at all sorts of hours, 

And, by way of penance and 
Christian meekuness, 

Of creeping silently out of his cell 

To take a pull at that hideous 
bell; 

So that all the monks who are 
lying awake 

May murmur some kind of prayer 
for his sake, 579 

And adapted to his peculiar weak- 
ness! 


FRIAR JOHN. 
From frailty and fall — 


ALL. 
Good Lord, deliver us all! 


FRIAR CUTHBERT. 


And before the bell for matins 
sounds, 

He takes his lantern, and goes the 
rounds, 

Flashing it into our sleepy eyes, 

Merely to say it is time to arise. 

But enough of that. Go on, if you 
please, 

With your story about St. Gildas 
de Rhuys. 


LUCIFER. 


Well, it finally came to pass 58a 

That, half in fun and half in mak 
ice, 

One Sunday at Mass 

We put some poison into the 
chalice. 

But, either by accident or design, 

Peter Abelard kept away 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


——. 


From the chapel that day, 

And a poor young friar, who in his 
stead 

Drank the sacramental wine, 

Fell on the steps of the altar, dead! 

But look! do yousee at the window 
there 590 

That face, with a look of grief and 
despair, 

That ghastly face, as of one in 
pain? 


MONKS. 
Who? where? 


LUCIFER. 


As I spoke, it vanished away 
again. 


FRIAR CUTHBERT. 


It is that nefarious 

Siebald the Refectorarius. 

That fellow is always playing the 
scout, 

Creeping and peeping and prowl- 
ing about; 

And then he regales 

The Abbot with scandalous tales. 


LUCIFER. 


A spy in the convent? One of the 
brothers 601 

Telling scandalous tales of the 
others ? 

Out upon him, the lazy loon! 

I would put a stop to that pretty 
soon, 

In a way he should rue it. 


MONKS. 
How shall we do it ? 


LUCIFER. 


Do you, brother Paul, 

Creep under the window, close to 
the wall, 

And open it suddenly when I call. 

Then seize the villain by the hair, 

And hold him there, 611 

And punish him soundly, once for 
all. 


581 





FRIAR CUTHBERT. 
As St. Dunstan of old, 
We are told, 
Once caught the Devil by the nose! 


LUCIFER. 
Ha! ha! that story is very clever, 
But has no foundation whatso- 
ever. 
Quick ! for I see his face again 
Glaring in at the window-pane ; 
Now! now! and do not spare your 
blows. 620 


FRIAR PAUL opens the window 
suddenly, and seizes SIEBALD. 


They beat him. 


FRIAR SIEBALD. 
Help! help! are you going to slay 
me? 


FRIAR PAUL. 


That will teach you again to be- 
tray me! 


FRIAR SIEBALD. 
Mercy! mercy! 


FRIAR PAUL, shouting and beat- 
ing. 
Rumpas bellorum lorum 
Vim confer amorum 
Morum verorum rorum 
Tu plena polorum ! 


LUCIFER. 


Who stands in the doorway yon- 
der, 

Stretching out his trembling hand, 

Just as Abelard used to stand, 

The flash of his keen, black eyes 

Forerunning the thunder ? 632 


THE MONKS, in confusion. 
The Abbot! the Abbot! 


FRIAR CUTHBERT. 


And what is the wonder! 
He seems to have taken you by 
surprise. 


582 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





FRIAR FRANCIS, 
Hide the great flagon 
From the eyes of the dragon! 


FRIAR CUTHBERT, 
Pull the brown hood over your 
face! 
This will bring us into disgrace! 


ABBOT. 


What means this revel and ¢a- 
rouse? 

Is this a tavern and drinking- 
house? 640 

Are you Christian monks, or 
heathen devils, 

To pollute this convent with your 


revels? 

Were Peter Damian still upon 
earth, 

To be shocked by such ungodly 
mirth, 

He would write your names, with 
pen of gall, 

In his Book of Gomorrah, one and 
all! 

Away, you drunkards! to your 
cells, 

And pray till you hear the matin- 
bells; 


You, Brother Francis, and you, 
Brother Paul! 

And as a penance mark each 
prayer 650 

With the scourge upon your 
shoulders bare; 

Nothing atones for such a sin 

But the blood that follows the dis- 
cipline. 

And you, Brother Cuthbert, come 
with me 

Alone into the sacristy ; 

You, who should be a guide to 
your brothers, 

And are ten times worse than all 
the others, 

For you I’ve a draught that has 
long been brewing, 

You shall do a penance worth the 
doing! 


Away to your prayers, then, one 
and all! 

I wonder the very convent wail 

Does not crumble and crush you 
in its fall! 660 


THE NEIGHBORING NUNNERY. 


The ABBESS IRMINGARD sitting 
with ELSIE in the moonlight. 


IRMINGARD. 


The night is silent, the wind is 
still, 

The moon is looking from yonder 
hill 

Down upon convent, and grove, 

' and garden; 

The clouds have passed away from 
her face, 

Leaving behind them no sorrowful 
trace, 

Only the tender and quiet grace 

Of one whose heart has been 
healed with pardon! 


And sucham I. My soul within 
Was dark with passion and soiled 


with sin. 671 

But now its wounds are healeé 
again ; 

Gone are the anguish, the terror, 
and pain; 

For across that desolate land of 
woe, 


O’er whose burning sands I was 
forced to go, 

A wind from heaven began to 
blow: 

And all my being trembled and 
shook, 

As the leaves of the tree, or the 
grass of the field, 

And I was healed, as the sick are 


healed, 
When fanned by the leaves of the 
Holy Book! 68a 


As thou sittest in the moonlight 
there, 
Its glory flooding thy golden hair, 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


583 





And the only darkness that which 
lies 

In the haunted chambers of thine 
eyes, 

J feel my soul drawn unto thee, 

Strangely, and strongly, and more 
and more, 

As to one I have known and loved 
before; 

For every soul is akin to me 

That dwells in the land of mys- 
tery! 

Iam the Lady Irmingard, 690 

Born of a noble race and name! 

Many a wandering Suabian bard, 

Whose life was dreary, and bleak, 
and hard, 

Has found through me the way to 
fame. 


Brief and bright were those days, 
and the night 

Which followed was full of a lurid 
light. 

Love, that of every woman’s heart 

Will have the whole, and not a 
part, 

That is to her, in Nature’s plan, 

More than ambition is to man, 700 

Her light, her life, her very breath, 

With no alternative but death, 

Found me a maiden soft and 
young, 

Just from the convent’s cloistered 
school, 

And seated on my lowly stool, 

Attentive while the minstrels sung. 


Gallant, graceful, gentle, tall, 
Fairest, noblest, best of all, 
Was Walter of the Vogelweid; 
And, whatsoever may betide, 
Still I think of him with pride! 
His song was of the summer-time, 
The very birds sang in his rhyme; 
The sunshine, the delicious air, 
The fragrance of the flowers, were 
there ; 

And I grew restless as I heard, 
Restless and buoyant as a bird, 
Down soft, aerial currents sailing, 


710 


O’er blossomed orchards, and fields 
in bloom, 

And through the momentary gloom 

Of shadows o’er the landscape 


trailing, 721 
Yielding and borne I knew not 
where, 


But feeling resistance unavailing. 


And thus, unnoticed and apart, 

And more by accident than choice, 

I listened to that single voice - 

Until the chambers of my heart 

Were filled with it by night and 
day. 

One night,—it was a night in 
May, cy , 

Within the garden, unawares, 730 

Under the blossoms in the gloom, 

I heard it utter my own name 


With protestations and _ wild 
prayers; 

And it rang through me, and be- 
came 

Like the archangel’s trump of 
doom, 

Which the soul hears, and must 
obey; 


And mine arose as from a tomb. 

My former life now seemed to 
me 

Such as hereafter death may be, 

When in the great Eternity 740 

We shall awake and find it day. 


It was a dream, and would not 
Stay ; 

A dream, that in a single night 

Faded and vanished out of sight. 

My father’s anger followed fast 

This passion, as a freshening blast 

Seeks out and fans the fire, whose 
rage 

It may increase, but not assuage. 

And he exclaimed: ‘ No wander- 


ing bard 
Shall win thy hand, O Irmin- 
_ gard! 
For which Prince Henry of Hohe. 
neck 751 


By messenger and letter sues.’ 


- 584 


Gently, but firmly, I replied: 
‘Henry of Hoheneck I discard! 
Never the hand of Irmingard 
Shall lie in his as the hand of a 
bride!’ 
This said I, Walter, for thy sake ; 
This said I, for I could not choose. 
After a pause, my father spake 
In that cold and deliberate tone 
Which turns the hearer into stone, 
And seems itself the act to be 762 
That follows with such dread cer- 
tainty: 
‘ This or the cloister and the veil!’ 
No other words than these he said, 
But they were like a funeral wail ; 
My life was ended, my heart was 
dead. 


That night from the castle-gate 
went down, 
With silent, slow, and stealthy 


pace, 
Two shadows, mounted on shad. 
owy steeds, 770 


Taking the narrow path that leads 

Into the forest dense and brown. 

In the leafy darkness of the place, 

One could not distinguish form nor 
face, 

Only a bulk without a shape, 

A darker shadow in the shade; 

One scarce could say it moved or 
stayed. 

Thus it was we made our escape ! 

A foaming brook, with many a 
bound, 

Followed us like a playful hound; 

Then leaped before us, and in the 


hollow 781 
Paused, and waited for us to fol- 
low, 


And seemed impatient, and afraid 

That our tardy flight should be be- 
trayed 

By the sound our horses’ hoof- 
beats made, 

And when we reached the plain 
below, 

We paused a moment and drew 
rein 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





To look back at the castle again ; 
And we saw the windows ailaglow 
With lights, that were passing to 


and fro; 790 
Our hearts with terror ceased to 
beat; 


The brook crept silent to our feet; 

We knew what most we feared to 
know. 

Then suddenly horns began to 
blow ; 

And we heard a shout, and a heavy 
tramp, 

And our horses snorted in the 
damp 

Night-air of the meadows green 
and wide, 

And in a moment, side by side, 

So close, they must have seemed 
but one, 

The shadows across the moonlight 
run, 800 

And another came, and swept be- 
hind, 

Like the shadow of clouds before 
the wind! 


How I remember that breathless 
flight 

Across the moors, in the summer 
night! 

How under our feet the long, white 
road 

Backward like a river flowed, 

Sweeping with it fences and 
hedges, 

Whilst farther away and over- 
head, 

‘Paler than I, with fear and dread, 

The moon fled with us as we fied 

Along the forest’s jagged edges! 


All this I can remember well; 812 

But of what afterwards befell 

I nothing further can recall 

Than a blind, desperate, headlong 
fall; 

The rest is a blank and darkness 
all. 

When I awoke out of this swoon, 

The sun was shining, not the moon 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 





Making a cross upon the wall 
With the bars of my windows nar- 
row and tall; 820 
And I prayed to it, as I had been 
wont to pray, 
From early childhood, day by day, 
Each morning, as in bed I lay! 
I was lying again iu my ownroom! 
And I thanked God, in my fever 
and pain, 
That those shadows on the mid- 
night plain 
Were gone, and could not come 
again! 
I struggled no longer with my 
doom! 


This happened many years ago. 

I left my father’s home to come 

Like Catherine to her martyrdom, 

For blindly I esteemed it so. 832 

And when I heard the convent 
aoor 


Behind me close, to ope no more, | 


I felt it smite me like a blow. 

Through all my limbs a shudder 
ran, 

And on my bruiséd spirit fell 

The dampness of my narrow cell 

As night-air on a wounded man, 

Giving intolerable pain. 840 


But now a better life began. 

I felf the agony decrease 

By slow degrees, then wholly 
cease, 

Ending in perfect rest and peace! 

It was not apathy, nor dulness, 

That weighed and pressed upon 
my brain, 

But the same passion I had given 

To earth before, now turned to 
heaven 

With all its overflowing fulness. 


Alas! the world is full of peril! 
The path that runs through the 
fairest meads, 851 


On the sunniest side of the valley,. 


leads 
Into a region bleak and sterile! 


585 

Alike in the high-born and the 
lowly, 

The will is feeble, and passion 
strong. 


We cannotsever right from wrong; 
Some falsehood mingles with all 


truth ; 

Nor is it strange the heart of 
youth 

Should waver and comprehend but 
slowly 

The things that are holy and un- 
holy! 860 


But in this sacred, calm retreat, 

We are all well and safely shield- 
ed 

From winds that blow and waves 
that beat, 

From the cold, and rain, and 
blighting heat, 

To which the strongest hearts 
have yielded. 

Here we stand as the Virgins 


Seven, 

For our celestial bridegroom yearn- 
ing; . 

Our hearts are lamps forever burn- 
ing, 

With a steady and unwavering 
flame, 869 


Pointing upward, forever the same, 
Steadily upward toward the hea- 
ven! 


The moon is hidden behind a cloud; 
A sudden darkness fills the room, 
And thy deep eyes, amid the gloom, 
Shine like jewels in a shroud. 
On the leaves is a sound of falling 
rain; 
A bird, awakened in its nest, 
Gives a faint twitter of unrest, 
Then smooths its plumes and 
sleeps again. 879 
No other sounds than these I hear; 
The hour of midnight must be near. 
Thou art o’erspent with the day’s 
fatigue 
Of riding many a dusty league; 
Sink, then, gently to thy slumber: 
Me so many cares encumber, 


586 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





So many ghosts, and forms of 
fright, 

Have started from their graves to- 
night, 

They have driven sleep from mine 
eyes away: 

J will go down to the chapel and 
pray. 


Vv 


A COVERED BRIDGE AT LU- 
CERNE 


PRINCE HENRY. 


God’s blessing on the architects 
who build 

The bridges o’er swift rivers and 
abysses 

Before impassable to human feet, 

No less than on the builders of 
cathedrals, 

Whose massive walls are bridges 
thrown across 

The dark and terrible abyss of 
Death. 

Well has the name of Pontifex 
been given 

Unto the Church’s head, as the 
chief builder 

And architect of the 
bridge 

That leads from earth to heaven. 


invisible 


ELSIE. 


How dark it grows! 
What are these paintings on the 
walls around us? II 


PRINCE HENRY. 
The Dance Macaber! 


ELSIE. 
What? 


PRINCE HENRY. 


The Dance of Death! 
All that go to and fro must look 
upon it, 
Mindful of what they shall be, 
while beneath, 


Among the wooden piles, the tur- 
bulent river 

Rushes, impetuous as the river of 
life, 

With dimpling eddies, ever green 
and bright, 

Save where the shadow of this 
bridge falls on it. 


ELSIE. 
Oh yes! I see it now! 


PRINCE HENRY. 


The grim musician 
Leads all men through the mazes 
of that dance, 20 
To different sounds in different 
measures moving; 
Sometimes he plays a lute, some- 
times a drum, 
To tempt or terrify. 


ELSIE. 
What is this picture? 


PRINCE HENRY. 

It is a young man singing to a 
nun, 

Who kneels at her devotions, but 
in kneeling 

Turns round to look at him; and 
Death, meanwhile, 

Is putting out the candles on the 


altar ! 
ELSIE. 

Ah, what a pity ’t is that she should 
listen 

Unto such songs, when in her ori- 
sons 

She might have heard in heaven 
the angels singing! 30 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Here he has stolen a jester’s cap 
and bells, 
And dances with the Queen. 


ELSIE. 
A foolish jest! 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 





PRINCE HENRY. 
And here the heart of the new- 
wedded wife, 
foming from church with her be- 
loved lord, 
He startles with the rattle of his 
drum. 


ELSIE, 
Ah, that is sad! And yet perhaps 
tis best 
That she should die, with all the 
sunshine on her, 
And all the benedictions of the 


morning, 

Before this affluence of golden 
light 

Shall fade into a cold and clouded 
gray, 40 


Then into darkness! 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Under it is written, 
‘Nothing but death shall separate 
thee and me!’ 


ELSIE. 


And what is this, that follows close 
upon it? 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Death, playing on a dulcimer. Be- 
hind him, 

A poor old woman, with a ros- 
ary, 


Follows the sound, and seems to 
wish her feet 

Were swifter to o’ertake him. 
Underneath, 

The inscription reads, ‘ Better is 
Death than Life.’ 


ELSIE, 


Better is Death than Life! 
yes! to thousands 
Death plays upon a dulcimer, and 


Ah 


sings 50 
That song of consolation, till the 
air 


Rings with it, and they cannot 
choose but follow 


587 


Whither he leads. And not the 
old alone, 
But the young also hear it, and 


are still. 


PRINCH HENRY. 


Yes, in their sadder moments. ’T is 
the sound 

Of their own hearts they hear, half 
full of tears, 

Which are like crystal cups, half 
filled with water, 

Responding to the pressure of a 


finger 

With music sweet and low and 
melancholy. 

Let us go forward, and no longer 
stay 60 

In this great picture - gallery of 
Death ! 

I hate it! ay, the very thought of 
it! 


ELSIE. 
Why is it hateful to you? 


PRINCE HENRY. 


For the reason 
That life, and all that speaks of 
life, is lovely, . 
And death, and all that speaks of 
death, is hateful. 


ELSIE. 


The grave itself is but a covered 
bridge, 

Leading from light to light, through 
a brief darkness! 


PRINCE HENRY, emerging from 
the bridge. 
I breathe again more freely! 


how pleasant 
To come once more into the light 


Ah, 


of day, 
Out of that shadow of death! To 
hear again 70 


The hoof-beats of our horses on 
firm ground, 

And not upon those hollow planks, 
resounding 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





588 
With a sepulchral echo, like the 
~  clods 
On coffins in a churchyard! Yon- 
der lies 


The Lake of the Four Forest- 
Towns, apparelled 

In light, and lingering, like a vil- 
lage maiden, 

Hid in the bosom of her native 


mountains, 

Then pouring all her life into 
another’s, 

Changing her name and being! 
Overhead, 

Shaking his cloudy tresses loose 
in air, 80 

Rises Pilatus, with his windy 


pines. 
They pass on. 


THE DEVIL’S BRIDGE. 


PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE cross- 
ing with attendants. 


GUIDE. 


This bridge is called the Devil’s 
Bridge. 

With a single arch. from ridge to 
ridge, 

It leaps across the terrible chasm 

Yawning beneath us, black and 
deep, 

As if, in some convulsive spasm, 

The summits of the hills had 
cracked, 

And made a road for the cataract 

That raves and rages down the 
steep! 


LUCIFER, under the bridge. 


Ha! ha! go 


GUIDE. 


Never any bridge but this 

Could stand across the wild abyss; 

All the rest, of wood or stone, 

By the Devil’s hand were over- 
thrown. 

He toppled crags from the preci- 
pice, 


And whatsoe’er was built by day 
In the night was swept away; 
None could stand but this alone. 


LUCIFER, under the bridge. 
Ha! ha! 


GUIDE. 

I showed you in the valley a bowl- 
der 100 

Marked with the imprint of his 
shoulder ; 

As he was bearing it up this 
way, 

A peasant, passing, cried, ‘ Herr 
Jé!? 

And the Devil dropped it in his 
fright, 

And vanished suddenly out of 
sight! 


LUCIFER under the bridge. 
Ha! ha! 


GUIDE. 


Abbot Giraldus of Einsiedel, 

For pilgrims on their way to Rome, 

Built this at last, with a single 
arch, 109 

Under which, on its endless march, 

Runs the river, white with foam, 

Like a thread through the eye of a 
needle. 

And the Devil promised to let it 
stand, 

Under compact and condition 

That the first living thing which 
crossed 

Should be surrendered into his 
hand, 

And be beyond redemption lost. 


LUCIFER, under the bridge. 
Ha! ha! perdition! 


GUIDE. 
At length, the bridge being all 
completed, 
The Abbot, standing at its head, 12¢ 
Threw across it a loaf of bread, 
Which a hungry dog sprang after, 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 





589 





And the rocks reéchoed with the | Bear thee across these chasms and 


peals of laughter 
To see the Devil thus defeated! 
They pass on. 


LUCIFER, under the bridge. 


Ha! ha! defeated ! 

For journeys and for crimes like 
this 

I let the bridge stand o’er the 
abyss! 


THE ST. GOTHARD PASS. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


This is the highest point. 
ways the rivers 

Leap down to different seas, and 
as they roll 

Grow deep and still, and their ma- 
jestic presence 130 

Becomes a _ benefaction to the 
towns 

They visit, wandering silently 
among them, 

Like patriarchs old among their 
shining tents. 


Two 


ELSIE. 
How bleak and bare it is! 
thing but mosses 
Grow on these rocks. 


No- 


PRINCE HENRY. 
Yet are they not forgotten; 
Beneficent Nature sends the mists 
to feed them. 


ELSIE. 
See yonder little cloud, that, borne 
aloft 
So tenderly by the wind, floats 
fast away 
Over the snowy peaks! It seems 
to me 


The body of St. Catherine, borne 
by angels! 140 
PRINCE HENRY. 


Thou art St. Catherine, and invisi- 
ble angels 


precipices, 
Lest thou shouldst dash thy feet 
against a stone! 


ELSIE. 
Would I were borne unto my grave, 
as she was, 


Upon angelic shoulders! Even 
now 

I seem uplifted by them, light as 
air! 


What sound is that ? 


PRINCE HENRY. 
The tumbling avalanches! 


ELSIE. 
How awful, yet how beautiful! 


PRINCE HENRY. 


These are 
The voices of the mountains! 
Thus they ope 
Their snowy lips, and speak unto 
each other, 150 
In the primeval language, lost to 
man. 


ELSIE. 


What land is this that spreads it- 
self beneath us? 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Italy! Italy! 


ELSTE. 


Land of the Madonna ! 

How beautiful it is! It seems a 
garden 
Of Paradise ! 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Nay, of Gethsemane 

To thee and me, of passion and of 
prayer! . 

Yet once of Paradise. Long years 
ago 

I wandered as a youth among its 
bowers, 

And never from my heart has 
faded quite 


590 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





Its memory, that, like a summer 


sunset, 160 
Encircles with a ring of purple 
light 
All the horizon of my youth. 
GUIDE. 
O friends! 
The days are short, the way before 
us long; 
We must not linger, if we think to 
reach 
The inn at Belinzona before ves- 
pers! 


They pass on. 


AT THE FOOT OF THE ALPS. 
A halt under the trees at noon. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Here let us pause a moment in the 
trembling 

Shadow and sunshine of the road- 
side trees, 

And,our tired horses in a group 
assembling, 

Inhale long draughts of this de- 
licious breeze. . 

Our fleeter steeds have distanced 
our attendants; 170 

They lag behind us with a slower 
pace ; 

We will await them under the 
green pendants 

Of the great willows in this shady 
place. 

Ho, Barbarossa! how thy mottled 
haunches 

Sweat with this canter over hill 
and glade ! 

Stand still, and let these overhang- 
ing branches 

Fan thy hot sides and comfort 
thee with shade! 


ELSIE. 
What a delightful 
spreads before us, 
Marked with a whitewashed cot- 
tage here and there! 


landscape 


And, in luxuriant garlands droop. 


ing o’er us, 180 
Blossoms of grape-vines scent the 
sunny air! 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Hark! what sweet sounds are 
those, whose accents holy 

Fill the warm noon with musie sad 
and sweet! 


ELSIE. 


It is a band of pilgrims, moving 
slowly 

On their Jong journey, with uncovy- 
ered feet. 


PILGRIMS, chanting the Hymn of 
St. Hildebert. 


Me receptet Sion illa, 

Sion David, urbs tranquilla, 
Cujus faber auctor lucis, 
Cujus porte lignum crucis, 
Cujus claves lingua Petri, 
Cujus cives semper leti, 
Cujus muri lapis vivus, 
Cujus custos Rex festivus! 


19¢ 


LUCIFER, asa Friar in the pro: 
cession. 


Here am I, too, in the pious band, 

In the garb of a barefooted Car- 
melite dressed! 

The soles of my feet are as hard 
and tanned 

As the conscience of old Pope 
Hildebrand, 

The Holy Satan, who made the 
wives 

Of the bishops lead such shameful 
lives. 

All day long I beat my breast, 20c 

And chant with a most particular 
zest 

The Latin hymns, which I under- 
stand 

Quite as well, I think, as the rest. 

And at night such lodging in barns 
and sheds, 

Such a hurly-burly in country inns, 

Such a clatter of tongues in empty 
heads, 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


SO} 





Such a helter-skelter of prayers 
and sins! 

Of all the contrivances of the time 

For sowing broadcast the seeds of 
crime, 

There is none so pleasing to me 
and mine 210 

As a pilgrimage to some far-off 
shrine! 


PRINCE HENRY. 


If from the outward man we judge 
the inner, 

And cleanliness is godliness, I 
fear 

A hopeless reprobate, a hardened 
sinner, 

Must be that Carmelite now pass- 
ing near. 


LUCIFER. 


There is my German Prince again, 

Thus far on his journey to Salern, 

And the lovesick girl, whose heated 
brain 

Is sowing the cloud to reap the 
rain ; 

But it’s a long road that has no 
turn ! 220 

Let them quietly hold their way, 

I have also a part in the play. 

But first I must act to my heart’s 
content 

This mummery and this merri- 
ment, 

And drive this motley flock of 
sheep 

Into the fold, where drink and 
sleep 

The jolly old friars of Benevent. 

Of a truth, it often provokes me to 
laugh 

To see these beggars hobble along, 

Lamed and maimed, and fed upon 


chaff, 230 
Chanting their wonderful piff and 
paff, 


And, to make up for not under- 
standing the song, 

Singing it fiercely, and wild, and 
Strong! 


Were it not for my magic garters 
and staff, 

And the goblets of goodly wine I 
quafi, 

And the mischief I make in 1 the 
idle throng, 

I should not continue the business 
long. 


PILGRIMS, chanting. 


In hac urbe, lux solennis, 
Ver zternum, pax perennis; 
In hae odor implens czlos, 
In hac semper festum melos! 


240 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Do you observe that monk among 
the train, 

Who pours from his great throat 
the roaring bass, 

As a cathedral spout pours out the 
rain, 

And this way turns his rubicund, 
round face? 


ELSIE, 


It is the same who, on the Stras- 
burg square, 

Preached to the people in the open 
air. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


And he has crossed o’er mountain, 
field, and fell, 

On that good steed, that seems to 
bear him well, 

The hackney of the Friars of Or- 
ders Gray, 250 

His own stout legs! He, too, was 
in the play, 

Both as King Herod and Ben Is- 
rael. 

Good morrow, Friar! 


FRIAR CUTHBERT. 
Good morrow, noble Sis' 


PRINCE HENRY. 
I speak in German, for, unless I 
err, 
You are a German, 


592 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 


er LD 


FRIAR CUTHBERT. 
IT cannot gainsay you. 
But by what instinct, or what se- 
cret sign, 
Meeting me here, do you straight- 
way divine 
That northward of the Alps my 
country lies? 


PRINCE HENRY. 
Your accent, like St. Peter’s, would 
betray you, 


Did not your yellow beard and | 
260 | 


your blue eyes. 

Moreover, we have seen your face 
before, 

And heard you preach at the 
Cathedral door 

On Easter Sunday, in the Stras- 
burg square. 

We were among the crowd that 

: gathered there, 

And saw you play the Rabbi with 
great skill, 

As if, by leaning o’er so many 
years 

To walk with little children, your 
own will 

Had caught a childish attitude 
from theirs, 


A kind of stooping in its form and |’ 


gait, 
And could no longer stand erect 
and straight. 
Whence come you now? 


FRIAR CUTHBERT. 
From the old monastery 


Of Hirschau, in the forest ; being |: 


sent 

Upon a pilgrimage to Benevent, 

To see the image of the Virgin 
Mary, 

That moves its holy eyes, and 
sometimes speaks, 

And lets the piteous tears run 
down its cheeks, 

To touch the hearts of the impen- 
itent. 


270 | 


PRINCE HENRY. 
Oh, had I faith, as in the days 
gone by, 
That knew no doubt, and feared 
no mystery ! 


LUCIFER, at a distance. 
Ho, Cuthbert! Friar Cuthbert! 


FRIAR CUTHBERT. 
Farewell, Prince! 

I cannot stay to argue and con 
vince. 281 


PRINCE HENRY. 


This is indeed the blessed Mary’s 
land, 


Virgin and Mother of out dear 


Redeemer! 


All hearts are touched and soft- 


ened at her name, 
Alike the bandit, with the bloody’ 
hand, 


The priest, the prince, the scholar, 


and the peasant, 

The man of deeds, the visionary 
dreamer, 

Pay homage to her as one ever 
present! 


And even as children, who have 


much offended 
A too indulgent father, in great 


shame, 290 
Penitent, and yet not daring unat- 
tended 


To go into his presence, at the gate 

Speak with their sister, and confid- 
ing wait 

Till she goes in before and inter. 
cedes,; 

So men, repenting of their evil 
deeds, 

And yet not venturing rashly to 
draw near 

With their requests an angry fa. 
ther’s ear, 

Offer to her their prayers and their 
confession, 

And she for them in heaven makes 
intercession. 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


me 





And if our Faith had given us no- 
thing more 300 

Than this example of all woman- 
hood, 

So mild, so merciful, so strong, so 
good, 

So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, 
pure, 

This were enough to prove it 
higher and truer 

Than all the creeds the world had 
known before. 


PILGRIMS, chanting afar off. 


Urbs ceelestis, urbs beata, 
Supra petram collocata, 
Urbs in portu satis tuto 
De longinquo te saluto, 
Te saluto, te suspiro, 

Te affecto, te requiro! 


310 


THE INN AT GENOA. 


A terrace overlooking the sea, 
Night. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


It is the sea, it is the sea, 

In all its vague immensity, 

Fading and darkening in the dis- 
tance! 

Silent, majestical, and slow, 

The white ships haunt it to and 
fro, 

With all their ghostly sails un- 
furled, 

As phantoms from another world 

Haunt the dim confines of exist- 


ence ! 

But ah! how few can compre- 
hend 320 

Their signals, or to what good 
end 

From land to land they come and 
go! 


Upon a sea more vast and dark 
The spirits of the dead embark, 
All voyaging to unknown coasts. 
We wave our farewells from the 
shore, 





593 

And they depart, and come no 
more, 

Or come as phantoms and as 
ghosts. 


_Above the darksome sea of death 


Looms the great life that is to 
be, 330 

A land of cloud and mystery, 

A dim mirage, with shapes of men 

Long dead, and passed beyond our 
ken. 

Awe-struck we gaze, and hold our 
breath 

Till the fair pageant vanisheth, 

Leaving us in perplexity, 

And doubtful whether it has been 

A vision of the world unseen, 

Or a bright image of our own 

Against the sky in vapors thrown. 


LUCIFER, singing from the sea. 


Thou didst not make it, thou canst 
not mend if, 341 


| But thou hast the power to end it! 


The sea is silent, the sea is dis- 
creet, 

Deep it lies at thy very feet ; 

There is no confessor like unto 
Death! 

Thou canst not see him, but he is 
near; 

Thou needst not whisper above 
thy breath, 

And he will hear; 

He will answer the questions, 

The vague surmises and sugges- 


tions, 350 
That fill thy soul with doubt an 
fear! 


PRINCE HENRY. 


The fisherman, who lies afloat, 
With shadowy sail, in yonder boat, 
Is singing softly to the Night! 
But do I comprehend aright 

The meaning of the words he sung 
So sweetly in his native tongue ? 
Ah yes! the sea is still and deep. 
Aii things within its bosom sleep ! 
A single step, and allis o’er; 36¢ 


594 


—___—_— 


A plunge, a bubble, and no more; 

And thou, dear Elsie, wilt be 
free 

From martyrdom and agony. 


ELSIE, coming from her chamber 
upon the terrace. 


The night is calm and cloudless, 

And still as still can be, 

And the stars come forth to lis- 
ten 

To the music of the-sea. 

They gather, and. gather, and 
gather, 

Until they crowd the sky, 

And listen, in breathless 
lence, 

To the solemn litany. 

It begins in rocky caverns, 

As a voice that chants alone 

To the pedals of the organ 

In monotonous undertone ; 

And anon from shelving beaches, 

And shallow sands beyond, 

In snow-white robes uprising 

The ghostly choirs respond, 

And sadly and unceasing 

The mournful voice sings on, 

And the snow-white choirs still 
answer 

Christe eleison! 


si- 
370 


380 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Angel of God! thy finer sense per- 
ceives 

Celestial and perpetual harmo- 
nies ! 

Thy purer soul, that trembles and 
believes, 

Hears the archangel’s trumpet in 
the breeze, 

And where the forest rolls, or 
ocean heaves, 

Cecilia’s organ sounding in the 
seas, 

And tongues of prophets speaking 
in the leaves. 390 

But I hear discord only and de- 
spair, 

And whispers as of demons in the 
air! 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





AT SEA. 


IL PADRONE., 


The wind upon our quarter lies. 

And on before the freshening gale 

That fills the snow-white lateen 
sail, 

Swiftly our light felucea flies. 

Around, the billows burst and 
foam; 

They lift her o’er the sunken rock, 

They beat her sides with many a 
shock, 

And then upon their flowing dome 

They poise her, like a weather. 
cock! 40L 

Between us and the western skies 

The hills of Corsica arise; 

Eastward, in yonder long blue line, 

The summits of the Apennine, 

And southward, and still far away, 

Salerno, on its sunny bay. 

You cannot see it, where it lies. 


PRINCE HENRY. 
Ah, would that never more mine 


eyes 
Might see its towers by night or 
day! 410 


ELSIE. 


Behind us, dark and awfully, 

There comes a cloud out of the 
sea, 

That bears the form of a hunted 
deer, 

With hide of brown, and hoofs of 
black, 

And antlers laid upon its back, 

And fleeing fast and wild with 
fear, 


| As if the hounds were on its track! 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Lo! while we gaze, it breaks and 
falls 418 

In shapeless masses, like the walls 

Of a burnt city. Broad and red 

The fires of the descending sun 

Glare through the windows, and 
o’erhead, 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


595 





Athwart the vapors, dense and | I was looking when the wind ibaa 


dun, 
Long shafts of silvery light arise, 
Like rafters that support the 
skies! 


ELSIE. 


See! from its summit the lurid 
levin 

Flashes downward without warn- 
ing, 

As Lucifer, son of the morning, 

Fell from the battlements of hea- 
ven! 


IL PADRONE. 


I must entreat you, friends, be- 
low! 430 

The angry storm begins to blow, 

For the weather changes with the 
moon. 

All this morning, until noon, 

We had baffling winds, and sudden 
flaws 

Struck the sea with their cat’s- 
paws. 

Only a little hour ago 

I was whistling to Saint Antonio 

For a capful of wind to fill our 
sail, 


And instead of a breeze he has | 


sent a gale. 
Last night I saw Saint Elmo’s 


stars, 440 
With their glimmering lanterns, 
all at play 


On the tops of the masts and the 
tips of the spars, 

And I knew we should have foul 
weather to-day. 

Cheerily, my hearties! yo heave 
ho! 

’ Brail up the mainsail, and let her 
go 

As the winds will and Saint An- 
tonio! 


Do you see that Livornese felucca, 

That vessel to the windward yon- 
der, 

Running with her gunwale under? 


took her. 

She had all sail set. and the ont 
wonder 

Is that at once the strength of the 
blast 

Did not carry away her mast. 

She is a galley of the Gran Duca, 

That, thr ough the fear of the Al- 
gerines, 

Convoys those lazy brigantines, 

Laden with wine and oil from 
Lucca. 

Now. all is ready, high and low: 

Blow, blow, good Saint Antonio! 


Ha! that is the first dash of the 


rain, 460 
With a sprinkle of spray above the 
rails, 


Just enough to moisten our sails, 

And make them ready for the 
strain. 

See how she leaps, as the blasts 
o’ertake her, 

And speeds away with a bone in 
her mouth! 

Now keep her head toward the 
south, 

And there is no danger of bank or 
breaker. 

With the breeze behind us, on we 
go; 

Not too much, good Saint An- 
tonio! 


VI 
THE SCHOOL OF SALERNO 


A travelling Scholastic affixing 
his Theses to the gate of the Coil- 
lege. 


SCHOLASTIC. 
here, that is my gauntlet, my 
banner, my shield, 
Hung up as a challenge to all the 
field! 
One hundred and twenty-five pro 
positions, 


CHRISTUS? A) MYSTERY 


Rc N 


Which I will maintain with the 
sword of the tongue 

Against. all disputants, old and 
young. 

Let us see if doctors or dialecti- 
cians 

Will dare to dispute my defini- 
tions, 

Or attack any one of my learned 
theses. 

Here stand I; the end shall be as 
God pleases. 

I think I have proved, by profound 


researches, 10 
The error of all those doctrines so 
vicious 


Of the old Areopagite Dionysius, 
That are making such terrible 
work in the churches, 

By Michael the Stammerer sent 
from the East, 

And done into Latin by that Scot- 
tish beast, 

Johannes Duns Scotus, who dares 
to maintain, 

In the face of the truth, the error 
infernal, 

That the universe is and must be 
eternal; 

At first laying down, as a fact fun- 


damental, 
That nothing with God can be ac- 
cidental; 20 


Then asserting that God before 
the creation 

Could not have existed, because it 
is plain 

That, had He existed, He would 
have created ; 

Which is begging the question 
that should be debated, 

And moveth me less to anger than 
laughter. 

All nature, he holds, is a respira- 
tion 

Of the Spirit of God, who, in breath- 
ing, hereafter 

Will inhale it into his bosom again, 

So that nothing but God alone will 
remain. 


And therein he contradicteth hime 
self; 3a 

For he opens the whole discussion 
by stating, 

That God can only exist in cre- 
ating. 

That question I think I have laid 
on the shelf! 


He goes out. Two Doctors come in 
disputing, and followed by pur 
pils. 


DOCTOR SERAFINO. 


I, with the Doctor Seraphic, main- 
tain, 

That a word which is only con- 
ceived in the brain 

Is a type of eternal Generation; 

The spoken word is the Incarna- 
tion. 


DOCTOR CHERUBINO. 


What do I care for the Doctor 
Seraphie, 

With all his wordy chaffer and 
traffic ? 


DOCTOR SERAFINO. 


You make but a paltry show of re- 
sistance; 40 
Universals have no real existence! 


DOCTOR CHERUBINO. 


Your words are but idle and empty 
chatter ; 

Ideas are eternally joined to mat- 
ter! 


DOCTOR SERAFINO. 


May the Lord have mercy on your 
position, 

You wretched, wrangling culler of 
herbs! 


DOCTOR CHERUBINO. 


May he send your soul to eternal 
perdition, 

For your Treatise on the Irregular 
Verbs! 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


597 





They rush out fighting. 
Scholars come in. 


FIRST SCHOLAR. 


Monte Cassino, then, is your Col- 
lege. 

What think you of ours here at 
Salern ? 


SECOND SCHOLAR. 


To tell the truth, I arrived so 
lately, 

I hardly yet have had time to dis. 
cern. 

So much, at least, I am bound to 
acknowledge: 

The air seems healthy, the build- 
ings stately, 

And on the whole I like it greatly. 


FIRST SCHOLAR, 


Yes, the air is sweet; the Cala- 
brian hills 

Send us down puffs of mountain 
alr; 

And in summer-time the sea-br eeze 
fills 

“With its coolness cloister, and 
court, and square. 

Then at every season of the year 

There are crowds of guests and 
travellers here; 60 

Pilgrims, and mendicant friars, 
and traders 

From the Levant, with figs and 
wine, 

And bands of wounded and sick 
Crusaders, 

Coming back from Palestine. 


SECOND SCHOLAR. 
And what are the studies you pur- 
sue? 
What is the course you here go 
through? 


FIRST SCHOLAR. 


The first three years of the college 
course 


Are given to Logic alone, as the 


source 


Two | Of all that is noble, and wise, and 


true. 


SECOND SCHOLAR. 
That seems rather strange, I must 


confess, 70 
In a Medical School; yet, never- 
theless, 
You doubtless have reasons for 
that. 


FIRST SCHOLAR. 


Oh yes! 

For none but a clever dialectician 

Can hope to become a great physi- 
cian; 

That has been settled long ago. 

Logic makes an important part 

Of the mystery of the healing art; 

For without it how could you hope 
to show 

That nobody knows so much as 
you know? 

After this there are five years 
more 80 

Devoted wholly to medicine, 

With lectures on chirurgical lore, 

And dissections of the bodies of 
swine, 

As likest the human form divine. 


SECOND SCHOLAR. 


What are the books now most in 
vogue ? 


FIRST SCHOLAR. 


Quite an extensive catalogue ; 
Mostly, however, books of our 
own; 
As Gariopontus’ Passionarius, 
And the writings of Matthew Pla- 
tearius; 
And a volume 
known 
Asthe Regimen of the School of 
Salern, 

For Robert of Normandy written 
in terse 

And very elegant Latin verse. : 

Each of these writings has its 
turn. 


em ee 


508 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





And when at length we have fin- 
ished these, 

Then comes the struggle for de- 
grees, 

With all the oldest and_ablest 
critics; 

The public thesis and disputation, 

Question, and answer, and expla- 
nation 

Of a passage out of Hippocra- 
tes, 100 

Or Aristotle’s Analytics. 

There the triumphant Magister 
stands! 

A book is solemnly placed in his 
hands, 

On which he swears to follow the 
rule 

And ancient forms of the good old 
School; 

To report if any confectionarius 

Mingles his drugs with matters 


various, 

and to visit his patients twice a 
day, 

And once in the night, tf they live 
in town, 


And if they are poor, to take no 
pay, IIo 

Having faithfully promised these, 

His head is crowned with a laurel 
crown; 

A kiss on his cheek, a ring on his 
hand, 

The Magister Artium et Physices 

Goes forth from the school like a 
lord of the land. 

And now,as we have the whole 
morning before us, 

Let us go in, if you make no ob- 
jection, 

And listen awhile to a learned 
prelection 

On Marcus Aurelius Cassiodorus. 


They goin. Enter LUCIFER as a 


Doctor. 

LUCIFER. 
This is the great School of 
Salern! 120 


A land of wrangling and of quar 
rels, 

Of brains that seethe, and hearts 
that burn, 

Where every emulous. scholar 


hears, 

In every breath that comes to his 
ears, 

The rustling of another’s lau- 
rels! 

The air of the place is called salu. 
brious ; 

The neighborhood of Vesuvius 
lends it 

An odor volcanic, that rather 
mends it, 

And the buildings have an aspect 
lugubrious, 

That inspires a feeling of awe and 
terror 


130 

Into the heart of the beholder, 

And befits such an ancient home- 
stead of error, 

Where the old falsehoods moulder 
and smoulder, 

And yearly by many hundred 
hands 

Are carried away, in the zeal of 
youth, 

And sown like tares in the field 
of truth, 

To blossom and ripen in other 
lands. 


What have we here, affixed to the 


gate? 

The challenge of some scholastic 
wight, 
Who wishes to hold a public de- 

bate 140 
On sundry questions wrong or 
right ! 


Ah, now this is my great delight! 
For I have often observed of late 
That such discussions end in a 
fight. 
Let us see what the learned wag 
maintains 
With such a prodigal waste of 
brains. 
Reads. 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


599 





Whether angels in moving from 
place to place 


Pass through the intermediate 
space. 

Whether God himself is the author 
of evil, 

Or whether that is the work of the 
Devil. 150 

When, where, and wherefore Luci- 
fer fell, 

And whether he now is chained in 
hell.’ 

i think I can answer that ques- 
tion well! 

So long as the boastful human 
mind 

Consents in such mills as this to 
grind, 


I sit very firmly upon my throne! 

Of a truth it almost makes me 
laugh, 

To see men leaving the golden 
grain 

To gather in piles the pitiful chaff 

That old Peter Lombard thrashed 
with his brain, 160 

To have it caught up and tossed 
again 

On the horns of the Dumb Ox of 
Cologne! 


But my guests approach! there is 
in the air 

A fragrance, like that of the Beau- 
liful Garden 

Of Paradise, in the days that 


were! 

An odor of innocence and of 
prayer, 

And of love, and faith that never 
fails, 

Such as the fresh young heart ex- 
hales 

Before it begins to wither and 
harden! 

Icannot breathe such an atmo- 
sphere! 170 

My soul is filled with a nameless 
fear, 

That, after all my trouble and 
pain, 


After all my restless endeavor, 

The youngest, fairest soul of the 
twain, 

The most ethereal, most divine, 

Will escape from my hands for 
ever and ever. 

But the other is already mine! 

Let him live to corrupt his race, 

Breathing among them, with every 
breath, 

Weakness, selfishness, and the 
base | 180 

And pusillanimous fear of death. 

I know his nature, and I know 

That of all whoin my ministry 

Wander the great earth to and fro, 

And on my errands come and go, 

The safest and subtlest are such 
as he. 


Enter PRINCE HENRY and 
ELSIE, with attendants. 


PRINCE HENRY. 
Can you direct us to Friar An- 
gelo? 
LUCIFER. 
He stands before you. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Then you know our purpose. 
Iam Prince Henry of Hoheneck, 


and this 

The maiden that I spake of in my 
letters. 190 

LUCIFER. 

It is a very grave and solemn 
business! 

We must not be precipitate. Does 
she 

Without compulsion, of her own 
free will, 


Consent to this ? 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Against all opposition, 
Against all prayers, entreaties, 
protestations. 
She will not be persuaded. 





LUCIFER. 
That is strange ! 
Have you thought well of it? 


ELSIE. 
I come not here 
To argue, but to die. Your busi- 
ness is not 


To question, but to killme. Iam 
ready. 

Iam impatient to be gone from 
here 200 

Ere any thoughts of earth disturb 
again 

The spirit of tranquillity within 
me. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Would I had not come here! 
Would I were dead, 

And thou wert in thy cottage in 
the forest, 

And hadst not known me! 
have I done this? 

Let me go back and die. 


Why 


ELSIE. 
It cannot be; 


Not if these cold, flat stones on 


which we tread 

Were coulters heated white, and 
yonder gateway 

Flamed like a furnace with a 
sevenfold heat. 

I must fulfil my purpose. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


I forbid it! 

Not one step further. For I only 
meant 211 

To put thus far thy courage to the 
proof. 

Itis enough. 
to die, 

For thou hast taught me! 


I, too, have strength 


ELSIE. 
O my Prince! remember 
Your promises. Let me fulfil my 
errand. 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





You do not look on life and death 
as I do. 

There are two angels, that attend 
unseen 

Each one of us, and in great books . 
record 

Our good and evil deeds. 
writes down 

The good ones, after every action 
closes 220 

His volume, and ascends with it to 
God. 

The other keeps his dreadful day- 
book open 

Till sunset, that we may repent; 
which doing, 

The record of the action fades 
away, 

And leaves a line of white across 
the page. 

Now if my act be good, as I be- 
lieve, 

It cannot be recalled. It is al- 
ready 

Sealed up in heaven, as a good deed 
accomplished. 

The rest is yours. Why wait you? 
Iam ready. 


He who 


To her attendants. 


Weep not, my friends! rather re. 
joice with me. 230 

I shall not feel the pain, but shall 
be gone, 

And you will have another friend 
in heaven. 

Then start not at the creaking of 
the door 

Through which I pass. 
what lies beyond it. 


I see 


To PRINCE HENRY. 


And you, O Prince! bear back my 
benison 

Unto my father’s house, and all 
within it. 

This morning in the church I 
prayed for them, 

After confession, after absolution, 

When my whole soul was white, I 
prayed for them. 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


601 





God will take care of them, they 
need me not. 240 

And in your life let my remem- 
brance linger, 

As something not to trouble and 
disturb it, 

But to complete it, adding life to 
life. 

And if at times beside the evening 
fire 

You see my face among the other 
faces, 

Let it not be regarded as a ghost 

That haunts your house, but as a 
guest.that loves you. 

Nay, even aS one of your own 
family, 

Without whose presence there 
were something wanting. 

I have no more to say. Let us go 
in. 250 


PRINCE HENRY. 
Friar Angelo! I charge you on 


your life, 
Believe not what she says, for she 
is mad, 
And comes here not to die, but to 
be healed. 
ELSIE. 


Alas! Prince Henry! 


LUCIFER. 
Come with me; this way. 


ELSIE goes in with LUCIFER, who 
thrusts PRINCE HENRY back 
and closes the door. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Gone! and the light of all my life 
gone with her! 

A sudden darkness falls upon the 
world! 

Oh, what a vile and abject thing 
am I 

That purchase length of days at 
such a cost! 

Not by her death alone, but by the 
death 


Of all that’s good and true and 
noble in me! 260 

All manhood, excellence, and self- 
respect, 

All love, and faith, and hope, and 
heart are dead! 

All my divine nobility of nature 

By this one act is forfeited forever. 

I am a Prince in nothing but in 
name! 


To the attendants. 


Why did you let this horrible deed 
be done? 

Why did you not lay hold on her, 
and keep her 

From self-destruction? Angelo! 
murderer! 


Struggles at the door, but cannot 
open it. 
ELSIE, within. 
Farewell, dear Prince! farewell! 


PRINCE HENRY. 
Unbar the door! 
LUCIFER. 
It is too late! 
PRINCE HENRY. 
It shall not be too late} 


They burst the door open and 
rush in. 


THE FARM-HOUSE IN THE 
ODENWALD. 


URSULA spinning. A summer 
afternoon. A table spread. 


URSULA. 
I have marked it well,—it must 
be true, — 271 
Death never takes one alone, but 


two! 
Whenever he enters in at a door, 
Under roof of gold or roof of 
thatch, 
He always leaves it upon the latch, 


602 


And comes again ere the year is 
over. 

Never one of a household only! 

Perhaps it is a merey of God, 

Lest the dead there under the sod, 

In the land of strangers, should be 


lonely ! 280 
Ah me! I think I am lonelier 
here! 
It is hard to go,— but harder to 
stay! 


Were it not for the children, I 
should pray 
That Death would take me within 


the year! 

And Gottlieb!—he is at work all 
day, 

In the sunny field, or the forest 
murk, 

But I know that his thoughts are 
far away, 

I know that his heart is not in his 
work! 

And when he comes home to me 
at night 

He is not cheery, but sits and 
sighs, 290 

And I see the great tears in his 
eyes, 


And try to be cheerful for his sake. 

Only the children’s hearts are 
light. 

Mine is weary, and ready to break. 

God help us! I hope we have 
done right; 

We thought we were acting for the 
best! 


Looking through the open door. 


Who is it coming under the trees? 

A. man, in the Prince’s livery 
dressed! 

He looks about him with doubtful 
face, 

As if uncertain of the place. 300 

He stops at the beehives ;— now 
he sees 

The garden gate;—he is going 
past! 

€an he be afraid of the bees ? 

No; he is coming in at last! 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





He fills my heart with strange 
alarm! 


Enter a Forester. 


FORESTER. 
Is this the tenant Gottlieb’s farm ? 


URSULA. 
This is his farm, and I his wife. 
Pray sit. What may your busi- 
ness be! 
FORESTER. 
News from the Prince! 


URSULA. 
Of death or life? 


FORESTER. 
You put your questions eagerly! 


URSULA. 
Answer me, then! How is the 
Prince ? 31 
FORESTER. 


I left him only two hours since 

Homeward returning down the 
river, 

As strong and well as if God, the 
Giver, 

Had given him back his youth 
again. 


URSULA, despairing. 
Then Elsie, my poor child, is dead! 


FORESTER. 

That, my good woman, I have not 
said. 

Don’t cross the bridge till you 
come to it, 

Is a proverb old, and of excellent 
wit. 

URSULA. 
Keep me no longer in this pain ! 320 


FORESTER. 


It is true your daughter is ne 
more ;— 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


603 





That is. the peasant she was be- 
fore. 


URSULA. 


Alas! I am simple and lowly bred, 

I am poor, distracted, and for- 
lorn. 

And it is not well that you of the 
court 

Should mock me thus, and make a 
sport 

Of a joyless mother whose child is 
dead, 

For you, too, were of mother born! 


FORESTER. 


Your daughter lives, 
Prince is well! 

You will learn erelong how it all 
befell. 330 

Her heart for a moment never 
failed; 

But when they reached Salerno’s 
gate, 

The Prince’s nobler self prevailed, 

And saved her for a noble fate. 

And he was healed, in his de- 
spair, 

By the touch of St. Matthew’s 
sacred bones ; 

Though I think the long ride in 
the open air, 

That pilgrimage over stocks and 
stones, 

In the miracle must come in for a 
share! 


and the 


URSULA, 


Virgin! who lovest the poor and 
lowly, 340 

{f the loud ery of a mother’s heart 

wan ever ascena to where thou 
art, 

Into thy ‘blessed hands and holy 

Receive my prayer of praise and 
thanksgiving ! 

Let the hands that bore our 
Saviour bear it 

Into the awful presence of God; 

For thy feet with holiness are 
shod, 


And if thou bearest it He will hear 
it. 

Our child who was dead again is 
living! 


FORESTER. 


I did not tell you she was dead; 350 
If you thought so *t was no fault of 


mine; 

At this very moment, while I 
speak, 

They are sailing homeward dowr 
the Rhine, 

In a splendid barge, with golden 
prow, 

And decked with banners white 
and red 

As the colors on your daughter’s 
cheek. 

They call her the Lady Alicia 
now; 

For the Prince in Salerno made a 
vow 


That Elsie only would he wed. 


URSULA. 


Jesu Maria! what achange!, 360 
All seems to me so weird and 
Strange! 


FORESTER. 


I saw her standing on the deck, 

Beneath an awning cool and 
shady; 

Her cap of velvet could not hold 

The tresses of her hair of gold, 

That flowed and floated like the 
stream, 

And fell in masses down her neck. 

As fair and lovely did she seem 

As in a story or a dream 

Some beautiful and foreign lady. 

And the Prince looked so aay 
and proud, 

And waved his hand thus to the 
crowd 

That gazed and shouted from the 
shore, 

All down the river, long and 
loud. 


604 


URSULA. 


We shall behold our child once 
more; 

She is not dead! Sheis not dead! 

God, listening, must have over- 
heard 

The prayers, that, without sound 
or word, 

Our hearts in secrecy have said! 

Oh, bring me to her; for mine 
eyes 380 

Are hungry to behold her face; 

My very soul within me cries ; 

My very hands seem to caress 


ner, 

To see her, gaze at her, and bless 
her ; 

Dear Elsie, child of God and 
grace! 


Goes out toward the garden. 


FORESTER. 


There goes the good woman out 
of her head; 

And Gottlieb’s supper is waiting 
here; 

A very capacious flagon of beer, 

And a very portentous loaf of 
bread. 

One would say his grief did not 
much oppress him. 390 

Here ’s to the health of the Prince, 
God bless him! 


He drinks. 


Ha! it buzzes and stings like a 
hornet! 

And what a scene there, through 
the door! 

The forest behind and the garden 
before, 

And midway an old man of three- 
score, 

With a wife and children that ca- 
ress him. 

Let me try still further to cheer 
and adorn it 

With a merry, echoing blast of my 
cornet! 


Goes out blowing his horn. 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





THE CASTLE OF VAUTSBERG ON. 
THE RHINE. 


PRINCE HENRY and ELSIE 
standing on the terrace at even- 
ing. 


The sound of bells heard from 
a distance. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Weare alone. The wedding guests 
Ride down the hill, with plumes 
and cloaks, 400 
And the descending dark invests 
The Niederwald, and all the nests 
Among its hoar and haunted oaks. 


ELSIE. 

What bells are those, that: ring so 
slow, 

So mellow, musical, and low ? 


PRINCE HENRY. 


They are the bells of Geisenheim, 
That with their melancholy chime 
Ring out the curfew of the sun. 


ELSIE. 
Listen, beloved. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


They are done! 
Dear Elsie! many years ago 410 
Those same soft bells at eventide 
Rang in the ears of Charlemagne, 
As, seated by Fastrada’s side 
At Ingelheim, in all his pride 
He heard their sound with secret 

pain. 


ELSIE. 
Their voices only speak to me’ 
Of peace and deep tranquillity, 
And endless confidence in thee' 
PRINCE HENRY. 
Thou knowest the story of ber 


ring, 
How, when the court went back 
to Aix, 42a 


THE GOLDEN LEGEND 


605 





Fastrada died; and how the king 
Sat watching by her night and day, 
Till into one of the blue lakes, 
Which water that delicious land, 
They cast the ring, drawn from her 
hand : 
And the great monarch sat serene 
And sad beside the fated shore, 
Nor left the land forevermore. 


ELSIE. 
That was true love. 


PRINCE HENRY. 


For him the queen 
Ne’er did what thou hast done for 
me. 430 


ELSIE. 


Wilt thou as fond and faithful be ? 
Wilt thou so love me after death? 


PRINCE HENRY. 


In life’s delight, in death’s dismay, 

In storm and sunshine, night and 
day, 

In health, in sickness, in decay, 

Here and hereafter, I am thine! 


Thou hast Fastrada’s ring. Be- 
_ neath 

The calm, blue waters of thine 
eyes, 


Deep in thy steadfast soul it lies, 

And, undisturbed by this world’s 
breath, 440 

With magic light its jewels shine! 

This golden ring, which thou hast 
worn 

Upon thy finger since the morn, 

Is but a symbol and a semblance, 

An outward fashion, a remem- 
brance, 

Of what thou wearest within un- 
seen, 

O my Fastrada, O my queen! 

Behold! the hill-tops all aglow 

With purple and with amethyst ; 

While the whole valley deep be- 
low ' 450 

Is filled, and seems to overflow, 

With a fast-rising tide of mist. 


The evening air grows damp and 
chill; 
Let us go in. 


ELSIE. 


Ah, not so soon. 
See yonder fire! It is the moon 
Slow rising o’er the eastern hill. 
It glimmers on the forest tips, 
And through the dewy foliage 
drips 
In little rivulets of light, 
And makes the heart in love with 
night. 460 


PRINCE HENRY. 


Oft on this terrace, when the day 

Was closing, have I stood and 
gazed, 

And seen the landscape fade away, 

And the white vapors rise and 
drown 

Hamlet and vineyard, tower and 
town, 

While far 
blazed. 

But then another hand than thine 

Was gently held and clasped in 
mine; 

Another head upon my breast 

Was laid, as thine is now, at 
rest. 470 

Why dost thou lift those tender 
eyes 

With so much sorrow and sur- 
prise ? 

A minstrel’s, not a maiden’s hand, 

Was that which in my own was 
pressed. 

A manly form usurped thy place, 

A beautiful, but bearded face, 

That now is in-the Holy Land, 

Yet in my memory from afar 

Is shining on us like a star. 

But linger not. For while I 
speak, 480 

A sheeted spectre white and tall, 

The cold mist climbs the castle 
wall, 

And lays his hand upon thy cheek! 

They go in. 


above the hill-tops 


606 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





EPILOGUE 


THE TWO RECORDING ANGELS 
ASCINDING 


THE ANGEL OF GOOD DEEDS, 
with closed book. 


God sent his messenger the rain, 

And said unto the mountain brook, 

‘Rise up, and from thy caverns look 

And leap, with naked, snow-white 
feet, 

From the cool hills into the heat 

Of the broad, arid plain.’ 


God sent his messenger of faith, 
And whispered in the maiden’s 
heart, 
‘Rise up, and look from where 
thou art, 

And seatter with unselfish hands ro 
Thy freshness on the barren sands 
And solitudes of Death.’ 


O beauty of holiness, 

Of self-forgetfulness, of lowliness! 

O power of meekness, 

Whose very gentleness and weak- 
ness 

Are like the yielding, but irresisti- 
ble air! 

Upon the pages 

Of the sealed volume that I tes? 

The deed divine 20 

Is written in characters of gold, 

That never shall grow old, 

But through all ages 

Burn and shine, 

With soft effulgence ! 

O God! it is thy indulgence 

That fills the world with the bliss 

Of a good deed like this! 


THE ANGEL OF EVIL DEEDS, 
with open book. 
Not yet, not yet 
Is the red sun wholly set, 30 
But evermore recedes, 
While open still I bear 
The Book of Evil Deeds, 
To let the breathings of the upper 
air 


Visit its pages and erase 

The records from its face! 

Fainter and fainter as I gaze 

In the broad blaze 

The glimmering landscape shines, 

And below me the black river 4 

Is hidden by wreaths of vapor! 

Fainter and fainter the black lines 

Begin to quiver 

Along the whitening surface of the 
paper ; 

Shade after shade 

The terrible words grow faint and 
fade, 

And in their place 

Runs a white space! 


Down goes the sun! 

But the soul of one, 50 

Who by repentance 

Hath escaped the dreadful sen- 
tence, 

Shines bright below me as I look. 

It is the end! 

With clostd Book 

To God do I ascend. 

Lo! over the mountain steeps 

A dark, gigantic shadow sweeps 

Beneath my feet; 

A blackness inwardly brighten- 
ing 60 

With sullen heat, 

As a storm-cloud lurid with light- 
ning. 

And a ery of lamentation, 

Repeated and again repeated, 

Deep and loud 

As the reverberation 

Of cloud answering unto cloud, 

Swells and rolls away in the dis. 
tance, 

As if the sheeted 

Lightning retreated, 

Baffled and thwar ted by the wind 
resistance. 


It is Lucifer, 

The son of mystery ; 

And since God suffers him to be, 
He, too, is God’s minister, 

And labors for some good 

By us not understood ! 


MARTIN 


LUTHER 


607 





SECOND INTERLUDE 
MARTIN LUTHER 


A CHAMBER IN THE WARTBURG. 


MORNING, 
WRITING. 


MARTIN LUTHER 


MARTIN LUTHER. 


Our God, a Tower of Strength is He, 
A goodly wall and weapon ; 
From all our need He helps us free, 
That now to us doth happen. 

The old evil foe 

Doth in earnest grow, 

In grim armor dight, 

Much guile and great might ; 
On earth there is none like him. 


OH yes; a tower of strength in- 
deed, 10 

A present help in all our need, 

A sword and buckler is our God. 

Innocent men have walked un- 
shod 

O’er burning ploughshares, and 
have trod 

Unharmed on serpents in their 
path, 

And laughed to scorn the Devil’s 
wrath! 


Safe in this Wartburg tower I 


stand 
Where God hath led me by the 
hand, ; 
And look down, with a heart at 
ease, 


Over the pleasantneighborhoods, 20 

Over the vast Thuringian Woods, 

With flash of river, and gloom of 
urees, 

With castles crowning the dizzy 
heights, 

And farms and pastoral delights, 

And the morning pouring every- 
where 

Its golden glory on the air. 

Safe, yes, safe am I here at last, 

Safe from the overwhelming blast 

Of the mouths of Hell, that fol- 
lowed me fast, 


And the howling demons of de 


spair 30 
That hunted me like a beast to his 
lair. 


Of our own might we nothing can; 
We soon are unprotected ; 
There fighteth for us the right Man, 
Whom God himself elected. 
Who is He; ye exclaim? 
Christus is his name, 
Lord of Sabaoth, 
Very God in troth; 
The field He holds forever. 40 


Nothing can vex the Devil more 

Than the name of Him whom we 
adore. 

Therefore doth it delight me best 

To stand in the choir among the 
rest, 

With the great organ trumpeting 

Through its metallic tubes, and 
sing: 

Et verbum caro factum est ! 

These words the Devil cannot en- 
dure, 

For he knoweth their meaning 
well! 

Him they trouble and repel, 50 

Us they comfort and allure, 

And happy it were, if our delight 

Were as great as his affright! 


Yea, music is the Prophets’ art; 

Among the gifts that God hath 
sent, 

One of the most magnificent! 

It calms the agitated heart ; 

Temptations, evil thoughts, and 
all 

The passions that disturb the soul, 

Are quelled by its divine control, 60 

As the Evil Spirit fled from Saul, 

And his distemper was allayed, 

When David took his harp and 
played. 


This world may full of Devils be, 
All ready to devour us; 

Yet not so sore afraid are we,_ 
They shall not overpower us. 


608 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





This World’s Prince, howe’er 
Fierce he may appear, 
He can harm us not, 7O 
He is doomed, God wot! 

One little word can slay him! 


Incredible it seems to some 

And to myself a mystery, 

That such weak flesh and blood as 
we, 

Armed with no other shield or 
sword, 

Or other weapon than the Word, 

Should combat and should over- 
come 

A Spirit powerful as he! 

He summons forth the Pope of 
Rome 80 

With all his diabolic crew, 

His shorn and shaven retinue 

Of priests and children of the 
dark ; 

Kill! kill! they cry, the Here- 
siarch,, 

Who rouseth up all Christendom 

Against us; and at one fell blow 

Seeks the whole Church to over- 
throw ! 

Not yet; my hour is not yet come. 


Yesterday in an idle mood, 89 

Hunting with others in the wood, 

I did not pass the hours in vain, 

For in the very heart of all 

The joyous tumult raised around, 

Shouting of men, and baying of 
hound, 

And the bugle’s blithe and cheery 
eall, 

And echoes answering back again, 

From crags of the distant moun- 
tain chain, — 

In the very heart of this, I found 

A mystery of grief and pain. 

Jt was an image of the power 100 

Of Satan, hunting the world about, 

With his nets and traps and well- 
trained dogs, 

His bishops and priests and theo- 
logues, 

And all the rest of the rabble rout, 





Seeking whom he may devour! 
Enough I have had of hunting 


hares, 

Enough of these hours of idle 
mirth, 

Enough of nets and traps and 
gins ! 


The only hunting of any worth 
Is where I can pierce with jave. 


lins 110 

The cunning foxes and wolves and 
bears 

The whole iniquitous troop of 
beasts, 

The Roman Pope and the Roman 
priests 

That sorely infest and afflict the 
earth ! 


Ye nuns, ye singing birds of the 
air! 

The fowler hath caught you in his 
snare, 

And keeps you safe in his gilded 
cage, 

Singing the song that never tires, 

To lure down others from their 


nests ; 
How ye flutter and beat your 
breasts, 120 


Warm and soft with young desires 
Against the cruel, pitiless wires, 
Reclaiming your lost heritage ! 
Behold! a hand unbars the door, 
Ye shall be captives held no more. 


The Word they shall perforce let stand, 

And little thanks they merit ! 

For He is with us in the land, 

With gifts of his own Spirit ! 
Though they take our life, 
Goods, honors, child and wife, 
Let these pass away, 
Little gain have they ; 

The Kingdom still remaineth! 


136 


Yea, it remaineth forevermore, 

However Satan may rage and roat, 

Though often he whispers in my 
ears: 

What if thy doctrines false should 
be? 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 





‘And wrings from me a bitter 


sweat. 
Then I put him to flight with 
jeers, 140 


Saying: Saint Satan! pray for me: 
If thouthinkest Iam not saved yet! 


And my mortal foes that lie in 
wait 

In every avenue and gate! 

As to that odious monk John Tet- 
zel, 

Hawking about his hollow wares 

Like a huckster at village fairs, 

And those mischievous fellows, 
Wetzel, 

Campanus, Carlstadt, Martin Cel- 
larius, 

And all the busy, multifarious rs50 

Heretics, and disciples of Arius, 


Half-learned, dunce-bold, dry and. 


hard, 
They are not worthy of my regard, 
-Poor and humble as I am. 


But ah! Erasmus of Rotterdam, 

He is the vilest miscreant 

That ever waiked this world be- 
low! 

A Momus, making his mock and 
mow, 

‘At Papist and at Protestant, 159 

Sneering at St. John and St. Paul, 

At God and Man, at one and all; 

And yet as hollow and false and 
drear, 

As a cracked pitcher to the ear, 


And ever growing worse and 
worse ! 

Whenever I pray, I pray for a 
curse 


On Erasmus, the Insincere! 


Philip Melancthon! thou alone 
Faithful among the _ faithless 
known, 
Thee I hail, and only thee! 
‘Behold the record of us three! 170 
Res et verba Philippus, 
Res sine verbis Lutherus ; 
Erasmus verba sine re! 


609 

My Philip, prayest thou for me? 

Lifted above all earthly care, 

From these high regions of the 
air, 

Among the birds that day and 
night 

Upon the branches of tall trees 

Sing their lauds and litanies, 

Praising God with all their might, 

My Philip, unto thee I write. 18: 

My Philip! thou who knowest 
best 

All that is passing in this breast; 

The spiritual agonies, 

The inward deaths, the inward 
hell, 

And the divine new births as well, 

That surely follow after these, 

As after winter follows spring; 

My Philip, in the night-time sing 

This song of the Lord I send te 
thee; 199 

And I will sing it for thy sake, 

Until our answering voices make 

A glorious antiphony, 

And choral chant of victory! 


PART THREE 


THE NEW ENGLAND 
TRAGEDIES 


JOHN ENDICOTT 


DRAMATIS PERSON A 


JoHN ENDICOTT . . . Governor. 

JOHN ENDICOTT . . His son. 

RICHARD BELLINGHAM Deputy Gover 
nor. 

JOHN NoRTON . . Minister of the 
Gospel. 

EDWARD BUTTER Treasurer. 


. Tithing-man. 

. Anolid citizen. 

. Landlord of 
the Three 
Mariners. 


WALTER MgRRY . 
NicHoLas UPSALL . 
SAMUEL COLE . 


Simon KEMPTHORN i 


RALPH GoLpsMITH Sea- Captains 


§10 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





WENLOCK CHRISTISON 

Epritu, his daughter 

Epwarp WHARTON 
Assistants, Halberdiers, Marshal, etc. 


Quakers. 


The scene is in Boston in the year 
65. 


PROLOGUE 


TO-NIGHT we Strive to read, as we 
may best, 

This city, like an ancient palimp- 
sest ; 

And bring to light, upon the blot- 
ted page, 

The mournful record of an earlier 
age, 

That, pale and half effaced, lies 
hidden away 

Beneath the fresher writing of to- 
day. 


Rise, then, O buried city that hast 
been; 

Rise up, rebuilded in the painted 
scene, 

And let our curious eyes behold 
once more 

The pointed gable and the pent- 
house door, 10 

The Meeting-house with leaden- 
latticed panes, 

The narrow thoroughfares, the 
crooked lanes! 


Rise, too, ye shapes and shadows 
of the Past, 

Rise from your long - forgotten 
graves at last; 

Let us behold your faces, let.us 
hear 

The words ye uttered in those 
days of fear! 

Revisit your familiar 
again, — 

The scenes of triumph, and the 

. scenes of pain, 

And leave the footprints of your 


bleeding feet 
Pnce more upon the pavement of 


the street! 20 


haunts ° 


Nor let the Historian blame the 
Poet here, 

If he perchance misdate the day 
or year, 

And group events together, by his 
art, 

That in the Chronicles lie far 
apart; 

For as the double stars, though 
sundered far, 

Seem to the naked eye a single 

star, 

So facts of history, at a distance 
seen, 

Into one common point of light 
convene. 


‘Why touch upon such themes?’ 
perhaps some friend 

May ask, incredulous; ‘and 2 
what good end? 

Why drag again into the light of 
day 

The errors of an age long passed 
away?’ 

I answer: ‘For the lesson that 
they teach: 

The tolerance of opinion and of 
speech. 

Hope, Faith, and Charity remain, 
— these three ; 

And greatest of them all is 


Charity.’ 

Let us remember, if these words 
be true, 

That unto all men Charity is 
due; 

Give what we ask; anda pity, while 
we blame, 

Lest we become copartners in the 
shame, 40 


Lest we condemn, and yet our- 
selves partake, 

And persecute the dead for con- 
science’ sake. 


Therefore it is the author seeks 
and strives 

To represent the dead as in theit 
lives, 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


61) 





And lets at times his characters 
unfold 

Their thoughts in their own lan- 
guage, strong and bold; 

He only asks of you to do the like; 

To hear him first, and, if you will, 
then strike. 


ACT I 


SCENE I.— Sunday afternoon. 
The interior of the Meeting- 
house. On the pulpit, an hour- 
glass ; below, a box for contribu- 
tions. JOHN NORTON in the 
pulpit. GOVERNOR ENDICOTT 
in a canopied seat, attended by 
four halberdiers. The congre- 
gation singing. 


The Lord descended from above, 
And bowed the heavens high ; 
And underneath his feet He cast 

The darkness of the sky. 


On Cherubim and Seraphim 
Right royally He rode, 

And on the wings of mighty winds 
Came flying all abroad. 


NORTON (rising and turning the 
hour-glass on the pulpit). 


I heard a great voice from the 
temple saying 
Unto the Seven Angels, Go your 


Ways; 10 
Pour out the vials of the wrath of 
God 


Upon the earth. And the First 
Angel went 

And poured his vial on the earth; 
and straight 

There fell a noisome and a griev- 
ous sore 

On them which had the birth-mark 
of the Beast, 

And them which worshipped and 
adored his image. 

On us hath fallen this grievous 
pestilence. 

There is a sense of terror in the 
air; 


And apparitions of things horrible 

Are seen by many. From the sky 
above us 20 

The stars fall; and beneath us the 
earth quakes ! 

The sound of drums at midnight 
from afar, 

The sound of horsemen riding to 
and fro, 

As if the gates of the invisible 
world 

Were opened, and the dead came 
forth to warn us, — 

All these are omens of some dire 


disaster 

Impending over us, and soon to 
fall. 

Moreover, in the language of the 
Prophet, 

Death is again come up into our 
windows, 

To cut off little children from with- 
out, 30 


And young men from the streets. 
And in the midst 

Of all these supernatural threats 
and warnings 


Doth Heresy uplift its horrid 
head; 

A vision of Sin more awful and 
appalling 

Than any phantasm, ghost, or ap- 
parition, 

As arguing and portending some 
enlargement 

Of the mysterious Power of Dark- 
ness! 


EpITH, Larefooted, and clad in 
sackcloth, with her hair hanging 
loose wpon her shoulders, walks 
slowly wp the aisle, followed by 
WHARTON and other Quakers. 
The congregation starts up in 
confusion. 


EDITH (to NORTON, raising her 


hand). 
Peace! 
NORTON. 
Anathema maranatha! The Lord 
cometh ! 


612 


= 


EDITH. 

Yea, verily He cometh, and shall 
judge 

The shepherds of Israel who do 
feed themselves, 40 

And leave their flocks to eat what 
they have trodden 

Beneath their feet. 


NORTON. 
Be silent, babbling woman! 
St. Paul commands all women to 
keep silence 
_ Within the churches. 


EDITH. 


Yet the women prayed 
And prophesied at Corinth in his 
day ; 
And, among those on whom the 
fiery tongues 
Of Pentecost descended,some were 
women! 


NORTON. 


The Elders of the Churches, by our 
law, 

Alone have power to open the 
doors of speech 

And silence in the Assembly. I 


command you! 50 
EDITH. 
The law of God is greater than 
your laws! 


Ye build your church with blood, 
your town with crime; 

The heads thereof give judgment 
for reward ; 

The priests thereof teach only for 
their hire; 

Your laws condemn the innocent 
to death; 

And against this I bear my testi- 
mony ! 


NORTON. 
What testimony ? 


EDITH. 
That of the Holy Spirit, 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





Which, as your Calvin says, sur 
passeth reason. 


NORTON. 
The laborer is worthy of his hire. 


EDITH. 


‘Yet our great Master did not teach 


for hire, 6a 

And the Apostles without purse 
or scrip 

Went forth to do his work. Be- 
hold this box 

Beneath thy pulpit. 
poor? 

Thou canst not answer. 
the Priest; 

And against this I bear my testi. 
mony. 


Is it for the 


It is for 


NORTON. 


Away with all these Heretics and 
Quakers ! 
Quakers, forsooth! 

quaking fell 
On Daniel, at beholding of the 
Vision, 

Must ye needs shake and quake? 
Because Isaiah 

Went stripped and barefoot, must 
ye wail and howl? 70 

Must ye go stripped and naked? 

must ye make 

A wailing like the dragons, and a 

mourning 

As of the owls? Ye verify the 

adage 

That Satan is God’s ape! 

with them! 

Tumult. The Quakers are driven 
out with violence, EDITH follow- 
ing slowly. The congregation 
retires in confusion. 

Thus freely do the Reprobates 

commit 

Such measure of iniquity as fits 

them 

For the intended measure of God’s 

wrath, 

And even in violating God’s com 

mands 


Because a 


Away. 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


Are they fulfilling the divine de- 
cree! 

The will of man is but an instru- 
ment 80 

Disposed and predetermined to its 
action 

According unto the decree of God, 

Being as much subordinate there- 
to 





As is the axe unto the hewer’s: 


hand! 


He descends from the pulpit, and ' 


joins GOVERNOR ENDICOTT, 

who comes forward to meet him. 
The omens and the wonders of the 
time, 


Famine, and fire, and shipwreck, 


and disease, 

The blast of corn, the death of our 
young men, 

Our sufferings in all precious, plea- 
sant things, 

Are manifestations of the wrath 
divine, 

Signs of God’s controversy with 
New England. go 

These emissaries of the Evil One, 

These servants and ambassadors 
of Satan, 

Are but commissioned execution- 
ers 

Of God’s vindictive and deserved 
displeasure. 

We must receive them as the Ro- 
man Bishop 

Once received Attila, saying, I re- 
joice 

You have come safe, whom I es- 
teem to be 

The scourge of God, sent to chas- 
tise his people. 

This very heresy, perchance, may 
serve 

The purposes of God to some good 
end. 100 

With you I leave it; but do not 
neglect 

The holy tactics of the civil sword. 


ENDICOTT. 
And what more can be done? 


613 


NORTON. 
The hand that cut 
The Red Cross from the colors of 
the king 
Can cut the red heart from this 
heresy. 
Fear not. All blasphemies imme- 
diate 
And heresies turbulent must be 
suppressed 
By civil power. 


ENDICOTT. 
But in what way suppressed ? 


NORTON. 

The Book of Deuteronomy de- 
clares 

That if thy son, thy daughter, or 
thy wife, 110 


Ay, or the friend which is as thine 
OWN soul, 

Entice thee secretly, and say to 
thee, 

Let us serve other gods, then shall 
thine eye 

Not pity him, but thou shalt surely 
kill him, 

And thine own hand shall be the 
first upon him 

To slay him. 


ENDICOTT. 


Four already have been slain; 

And others banished upon pain of 
death. 

But they come back again to meet 
their doom, 

Bringing the linen for their wind- 
ing-sheets. 

We must not go too far. In truth, 
I shrink 120 

From shedding of more blood. The 
people murmur 

At our severity. 


NORTON. 


Then let them murmur! 
Truth is relentless; justice never 
wavers; 


614 


The greatest firmness is the great- 
est mercy ; 

The noble order of the Magistracy 

Cometh immediately from God, 
and yet 

This noble order of the Magis- 
tracy 

Is by these Heretics despised and 
outraged. 


ENDICOTT. 


To-night they sleep in prison. If 
they die, 

They cannot say that we have 
caused their death. 130 

We do but guard the passage, with 
the sword 

Pointed towards them; if they 
dash upon it, 

Their blood will be on their own 
heads, not ours. 


NORTON. 


Enough. I ask no more. 
decessor 

Coped only with the milder here- 
sies 

Of Antinomians and of Anabap- 
tists. 

He was not born to wrestle with 
these fiends. 

Chrysostom in his pulpit; Augus- 
tine 

In disputation; Timothy 
house! ° 

The lantern of St. Botolph’s ceased 
to burn 140 

When from the portals of that 
church he came 

To be a burning and a shining 


My pre- 


in his 


light 

Here in the wilderness. And, as 
he lay 

On his death-bed, he saw me ina 
vision 


Ride on a snow-white horse into 
this town. 

His vision was prophetic; thus I 
came, 

A terror to the impenitent, and 
Death 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





et 


On the pale horse of the Apoca 


lypse 
To all the accursed race of Here. 
tics! [Exeunt. 


SCENE II.— Astreet. Onone side, 
- NICHOLAS UPSALL’S house; on 
the other, WALTER MERRY’S, 
with a flock of pigeons on the 
roof. UPSALL seated in the 
porch of his house. 


UPSALL. 


Oday ofrest! How beautiful, how 
fair, 15a 

How welcome to the weary and 
the old! 

Day of the Lord! and truce to 
earthly cares! 

Day of the Lord, as all our days 
should be! 

Ah, why will man by his austeri. 
ties 

Shut out the blessed sunshine and 
the light, 

And make of thee a dungeon of 
despair! 


WALTER’ MERRY (entering and 
looking round him). 


All silentas a graveyard! Noone 
stirrin::; 

No footfall in the street, no sound 
of voices ! 

By righteous punishment and per- 
severance, 

And perseverance in that punish. 
ment, 160 

At last I have brought this contu. 
macious town 

To strict observance of the Sab- 
bath day. 

Those wanton gospellers, the pi- 
geons yonder, 

Are now the only Sabbath-break. 
ers left. 

I cannot put them down. As if te 
taunt me, 

They gather every Sabbath after 
noon 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 





In noisy congregation on my roof, 
Billing and cooing. Whir! take 
that, ye Quakers. 


Throws a stone at the pigeons, 
Sees UPSALL. 


Ah! Master Nicholas! 


UPSALL. - 
Good afternoon, 
Dear neighbor Walter. 
MERRY. 


Master Nicholas, 
You have to-day withdrawn your- 


self from meeting. 17I 
UPSALL. 
Yea, I have chosen rather to wor- 
ship God 
Sitting in silence here at my own 
door. 
MERRY. 


Worship the Devil! 
have broken 

Three of our strictest laws. 
by abstaining 

From public worship. Secondly, 
by walking 

Profanely on the Sabbath. 


You this day 


First, 


UPSALL. 


Not one step. 
I have been sitting still here, see- 
ing the pigeons 
Feed in the street and fly about 
the roofs. 


MERRY. 


You have been in the street with 
other intent 180 

Than going to and from the Meet- 
ing-house. 

And, thirdly, you are harboring 
Quakers here. 

T am amazed! 


UPSALL. 


Men sometimes, it is said, 
Entertain angels unawares. 


615 


MERRY. 
Nice angels! 

Angels in broad-brimmed hats and 
russet cloaks, 

The color of the Devil’s nutting. 
bag! They came 

Into the Meeting-house this after. 
noon 

More in the shape of devils than 
of angels. 

The women screamed and fainted; 
and the boys 

Made such an uproar in the gal. 
lery 199 

I could not keep them quiet. 


UPSALL. 
Neighbor Walter, 
Your persecution is of no avail. 


MERRY. 


*T is prosecution, as the Governor 
says, 
Not persecution. 


UPSALL. 


Well, your prosecution; 
Your hangings do no good. 


MERRY. 


The reason is, 
We do not hang enough. But, 
mark my words, 
We ’ll scour them; yea, I warrant 
ye, we ‘ll scour them! 
And now go in and entertain your 


angels, 

And don’t be seen here in the street 
again 

Till after sundown! — There they 
are again! 20a 

Exit UPSALL. MERRY throws 


another stone at the pigeons, 
and then goes into his house. 


SCENE III.— A room in UPSALL*® 
house. Night. EDITH, WHAR 
TON, and other Quakers seatet 
atatable. UPSALL seated near 
them. Several books on the tw 
ble. 


616 





WHARTON. 


William and Marmaduke, our mar- 
tyred brothers, 


Sleep in untimely graves, if aught: 


untimely 
Can find place in the providence of 
God, 


Where nothing comes too early or 


too late. 
I saw their noble death. They to 
the scaffold 


Walked hand in hand. Two hun-' 


dred arméd men 

many 

them, for fear 

Of rescue by the crowd, whose 
hearts were stirred. 


And 


EDITH. 
O holy martyrs! 


WHARTON. 


When they tried to speak, 
Their voices by the roll of drums 
were drowned. 210 
When they were dead they still 
looked fresh and fair, 
The terror of death was not upon 
their faces. 
Our sister Mary, likewise, the meek 
woman, 


her reward; 


her death, 

*These many days I’ve heer in 
Paradise.’ 

And, when she died, Priest Wil- 
son threw the hangman 


pale face 
He dared not look upcn. 


EDITH. 


As persecuted, 

Yet not forsaken; as unknown, 
yet known; 

AS dying, and behold we are alive; 


As sorrowful, and yet rejoicing al- |, 


Ways; 
As having nothing, yet possessing 
all! 


horsemen guarded } 


220 |) : 
‘EDITH (rising and breaking inte 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 


WHARTON. 

And Leddra, too, is dead. But 
from his prison, 

The day before his death, he sent 
these words 

Unto the little flock of Christ: 
‘Whatever 

May come upon the followers of 
the Light, — 

Distress, affliction, famine, naked 
ness, 

Or perils in the city or the sea, 

Or persecution, or even death it- 
self, — 230 

Iam persuaded that God’s armor 
of Light, 

AS it is loved and lived in, will pre- 
serve you. 

Yea, death itself; through which 

' you will find entrance 

Into the pleasant pastures of the 
fold, 

Where you shall feed forever as 
the herds 

That roam at large in the low val- 
leys of Achor. 

And as the flowing of the ocean 
fills 

Each creek and branch thereof, 
and then retires, 


- Leaving. behind a sweet and whole- 
Has passed through martyrdom to |, 
:So doth the virtue and the life of 
Exclaiming, as they led her to | 


some savor; 


God 240 
Flow evermore into the hearts of 
those 


Whom He hath made partakers of 
his nature ; 


‘And, when it but withdraws itself 
His handkerchief, to cover the }: 


a little, | 

Leaves a sweet savor after it, that 
many 

Can say they are made clean by 
every word 


‘That He hath spoken to them in 


their silence.’ 


a kind of chant). 


‘Truly we do but grope here in the 


dark, 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


617 





Near the partition-wall of Life and 
Death, 

At every moment dreading or de- 
siring 

To lay our hands upon the unseen 
door! 250 

Let us, then, labor for an inward 
stillness, — ~ 

An inward stillness and an inward 
healing ; 

That perfect silence where the lips 
and heart 

Are still, and we no longer enter- 
tain 

Our own imperfect thoughts and 
vain opinions, 

But God alone speaks in us, and 
we wait 

In singleness of heart, that we 
may know 

His will, and in the silence of our 
spirits, 

That we may do his will, and do 
that only! 


A long pause, interrupted by the 

' sound of a drum approaching ; 
then shouts in the street, and a 
loud knocking at the door. 


MARSHAL. 
Within there! Open the door! 


MERRY. 
Will no one answer? 


MARSHAL. 


In the King’s name! 
there! 


Within 


MERRY. 
Open the door! 


UPSALL (from the window). 


It is not barred. Come in. No- 
thing prevents you, 262 

The poor man’s door is ever on 
the latch. 

Ge needs no bolt nor bar to shut 
out thieves ; 


He fears no enemies, and has no 
friends 

Importunate enough to need a 
Key. 


Enter JOHN ENDICOTT, the MAR- 
SHAL, MERRY, and a crowd. 
Seeing the Quakers silent and 
unmoved, they pause, awe- 
struck. ENDICOTT opposite 
EDITH. 


MARSHAL. 


In the King’s name do I arrest 
you all! 

Away with them to prison. Mas- 
ter Upsall, 

You are again discovered harbor- 


ing here 
These ranters and disturbers of 
the peace. 270 


You know the law. 


UPSALL. 


I know it, and am ready 
To suffer yet again its penalties. 


EDITH (to ENDICOTT). 


Why dost thou persecute me, Saul 
of Tarsus? 


ACT ITI 


SCENE I.— JOHN ENDICOTT’S 
room. Early morning. 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


‘Why dost thou persecute me. 
Saul of Tarsus ?? 

All night these words were ring- 
ing in mine ears! 

A sorrowful sweet face; a look 
that pierced me 

With meek reproach; a voice of 
resignation 

That had a life of suffering in its 
tone; 

And that was all! And yet I 
could not sleep, 


618 CHRISTUS: 


A MYSTERY 





Or, when IJ slept, I dreamed that | It is but air. 


awful dream ! 

I stood beneath the elm-tree on 
the Common 

On which the Quakers have been 
hanged, and heard 

A voice, not hers, that cried oy 
the darkness, 

‘This is Aceldama, the field of 
blood! 

I will have mercy, and not sacri- 
fice!’ 

Opens the window, and looks out. 

The sun is up already; and my 
heart 

Sickens and sinks within me when 
I think 

How many tragedies will be en- 
acted 

Before his setting. 
rolls round, 

It seems to me a huge Ixion’s 
wheel, 

Upon whose whirling spokes we 
are bound fast, 

And must go with it! 
bright the sun 

Strikes on the sea and on the 


As the earth 


Ah, how 


masts of vessels, 20 

That are uplifted in the morning 
air, 

Like crosses of some peaceable 
crusade! 

It makes me long to sail for lands 
unknown, 

Nomatter whither! Under me, in 
shadow, 

Gloomy and narrow lies the little 
town, 

Still sleeping, but to wake and toil 
awhile, 


Then sleep again. How dismal 
looks the prison, 

How grim and sombre in the sun- 
less street, — 

The prison where she sleeps, or 
wakes and waits 

for what I dare not think of,— 


death, perhaps! 30 
A word that has been said may be 
unsaid: 


But when a deed is 
done 

It cannot be undone, nor can our 
thoughts 

Reach out to all the mischiefs that 
may follow. 

’T is time for morning prayers. lL 
will go down. 

My father, though severe, is kind 
and just ; 

And when his heart is tender with 
devotion, — 

When from his lips have fallen the 
words, * Forgive us 

As we forgive,’— then will I inter- 
cede 39 

For these poor people, and per- 
haps may Save them. [Eazit. 


SCENE ITI.— Dock Square. On one 
side, the tavern of the Three 
Mariners. In the background, 
a quaint building with gables ; 
and, beyond it, wharves and 
shipping. CAPTAIN KEMP- 
THORN and others seated at @ 
table before the door. SAMUEL 
COLE standing near them. 


KEMPTHORN. 


Come, drink about! Remember 
Parson Melham, 

And bless the man who first in- 
vented flip! 


They drink. 


COLE. 
Pray, Master Kempthorn, where 
were you last night? 
KEMPTHORN. 
On board the Swallow, Simon 
Kempthorn, master, 
Up for Barbadoes, and the Wind. 
ward Islands. 
COLE. 
The town was in a tumult. 


KEMPTHORN. 
And for what? 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


619 





COLE. 
Your Quakers were arrested. 


KEMPTHORN. 
How my Quakers ? 


COLE. 


Those you brought in your vessel 
from Barbadoes. 

They made an uproar in the Meet- 
ing-house 

Yesterday, and they’re now in 


prison for it. 50 
I owe you little thanks for bring- 
ing them 


To the Three Mariners. 


KEMPTHORN. 


They have not harmed you. 

I tell you, Goodman Cole, that 
Quaker girl 

Is precious as asea-bream’seye. I 
tell you 

It was 2 lucky day when first she 
set 

Her little foot upon the Swallow’s 
deck, 

Bringing good luck, fair winds, and 
pleasant weather. 


COLE. 


Tam a law-abiding citizen; 
I have a seat in the new Meeting- 


house, 
A cow-right on the Common; and, 
besides, 60 
Am corporal in the Great Artil- 
lery. 
I rid me of the vagabonds at 
once. 
KEMPTHORN. 


Why should you not have Quakers 
at your tavern 
If you have fiddlers ? 


COLE. 

Never! never! never! 

If you want fiddling you must go 
elsewhere, 


To the Green Dragon and ‘the 
Admiral Vernon, 


And _ other 
places. 

But the Three Mariners is an 
orderly house, 

Most orderly, quiet, and respecta- 
ble. 

Lord Leigh said he could be as 
quiet here 

As at the Governor’s, 
not 

King Charles’s Twelve Good 
Rules, all framed and glazed, 

Hanging in my best parlor? 


such disreputable 


79 
And have I 


KEMPTHORN. 


Here ’s a health 
To good King Charles. Will you 
not drink the King? 
Then drink confusion to old Par- 
son Palmer. 


COLE. 


And who is Parson Palmer? I 
don’t know him. 


KEMPTHORN. 


He had his cellar underneath his 
pulpit, 
And so preached o’er his liquor, 
just as you do. 
A drum within. 
COLE, 
Here comes the Marshal. 


MERRY (within). 
Make room for the Marshal. 


KEMPTHORN. 
How pompous and imposing he 
appears! 8a 


His great buff doublet bellying like 
a mainsail, 

And all his streamers fluttering in 
the wind. 

What he?ds he in his hand? 


COLE. 
A proclamation. 


620 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





Enter the MARSHAL, with a pro- 
clamation ; and MERRY, with a 
halberd. They are preceded by 
adrummer, and followed by the 
hangman, with an armful of 
books, and a crowd of people, 
among whom are UPSALL and 
JOHN ENDICOTT. A pile is 
made of the books. 


MERRY. 


Silence, the drum! Good citizens, 
attend 

To the new laws enacted by the 
Court. 


MARSHAL (reads). 


‘Whereas a cursed sect of Here- 
tics 

Has lately risen, commonly called 
Quakers, 

Who take upon themselves to be 
commissioned 

Immediately of God, and further- 
more 

Infallibly assisted by the Spirit 90 

To write and utter blasphemous 
opinions, 

Despising Government and the 
order of God 

In Church and Commonwealth,and 
speaking evil 

Of Dignities, reproaching and re- 
viling 

The Magistrates and Ministers, 
and seeking 

To turn the people from their 
faith, and thus 

Gain proselytes to their pernicious 
ways ;— 

This Court, considering the pre- 
mises, 

And to prevent like mischief as is 
wrought 

By their means in our land, doth 
hereby order, 100 

That whatsoever master or com- 
mander 

Of any ship, bark, pink, or catch 
shall bring 

To any roadstead, harbor, creek, 
or cove 


Within this Jurisdiction any Qua 
kers, ; 

Or other blasphemous Heretics, 
shall pay 

Unto the Treasurer of the Com. 
monwealth 

One hundred pounds, and for de. 
fault thereof 

Be put in prison, and continue 
there 

Till the said sum be satisfied and 
paid.’ 

COLE. 

Now, Simon Kempthorn, what say 

you to that? 110 
KEMPTHORN. 

I pray you, Cole, lend me a hun- 

dred pounds! 
MARSHAL (reads). 
‘If any one within this Jurisdic- 


tion 

Shall henceforth entertain, or shall 
conceal 

Quakers, or other blasphemous 
Heretics, 

Knowing them so to be, every such 
person 

Shall forfeit to the country forty 
shillings 

For each hour’s entertainment or 
concealment, 

And shall be sent to prison, as 
aforesaid, 

Until the forfeiture be wholly 
paid.’ : 


Murmurs in the crowd. 


KEMPTHORN. 


Now, Goodman Cole, I think your 
turn has come! 120 


COLE. 
Knowing them so to be! 


KEMPTHORN. 
At forty shillings 
The hour, your fine will be some 
forty pounds! 


THE NEW ENGLAND ‘TRAGEDIES 


621 





COLE. 
Knowing them so to be! 
the law. 


That is 


MARSHAL (reads). 

* And it is further ordered and en- 
acted, 

If any Quaker or Quakers shall 
presume 

To come henceforth into this Ju- 
risdiction, 

Every male Quaker for the first 
offence 

Shall have one ear cut off; and 
shall be kept 

At labor in the Workhouse, till 
such time 

As he be sent away at his own 
charge. 


130 

And for the repetition of the of- 
fence 

Shall have his other ear cut off, 
and then 

Be branded in the palm of his right 
hand. 

And every woman Quaker shall be 
whipt 

Severely in three towns; and every 
Quaker, 

Or he or she, that shall for a third 
time 


Herein again offend, shall have 
their tongues 

Bored through with a hot iron, and 
shall be 

Sentenced to Banishment on pain 
of Death.’ 


Loud murmurs. The voice of 
CHRISTISON in the crowd. 


O patience of the Lord! How long, 
how long, 


140 
Ere thou avenge the blood of Thine 
Elect ? 
MERRY. 
Silence, there, silence! Do not 


break the peace! 


MARSHAL (reads). 


Every inhabitant of this Jurisdic- 
tion 


Who shall defend the horrible 
opinions 

Of Quakers, by denying Gue re- 
spect 

To equals and superiors, and with- 
drawing 

From Church Assemblies, 
thereby approving 

The abusive and destructive prac- 


and 


tices 

Of this accursed sect, in opposi- 
tion 

To all the orthodox received opir.- 
ions 150 

Of godly men, shall be forthwith 
committed 


Unto close prison for one month; 
and then 

Refusing to retract and to reform 

The opinions as aforesaid, he shall 
be 

Sentenced to Banishment on pain 
of Death. 

By the Court. 
Secretary.’ 

Now, hangman, do your duty. 
Burn those books. 


Edward Rawson, 


Loud murmurs inthe crowd. The 
pile of books is lighted. 


UPSALL. 


I testify against these cruel laws! 

Forerunners are they of some 
judgment on us; 

And, in the love and tenderness I 
bear 160 

Unto this town and people, I be- 
seech you, 

O Magistrates, take heed, lest ye 
be found 

As fighters against God! 


JOHN ENDICOTT (taking UP- 
SALL’S hand). 


Upsall, I thank you 
For speaking words such as some 
younger man, 
I, or another, should have said be- 
fore you. 
Such laws as these are cruel ance 
oppressive; 


§22 





A blot on this fair town, and a dis- 
grace 
To any Christian people. 


MERRY (aside, listening behind 
them). 
Here ’s sedition ! 
I never thought that any good 
would come 
Of this young popinjay, with his 
long hair 170 
And his great boots, fit only for 
the Russians 
Or barbarous Indians, as his fa- 
ther says! 


THE VOICE. 


Woe to the bloody town! 
rightfully 

Men call it the Lost Town! 
blood of Abel 

Cries from the ground, and at the 
final judgment 

The Lord will say, ‘Cain, Cain! 
where is thy brother?’ 


And 


The 


MERRY. 
Silence there in the crowd! 


UPSALL (aside). 
’T is Christison! 


THE VOICE. 
O foolish people, ye that think to 


burn 

And to consume the truth of God, 
I tell you 

That every flame is a loud tongue 
of fire 180 

To publish it abroad to all the 
world 


Louder than tongues of men! 


KEMPTHORN (springing to his 
feet). 
Well said, my hearty! 
There ’s a brave fellow! There’s 
aman of pluck! 
A man who’s not afraid to say his 
say, 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 


Though a whole town’s against 
him. Rain, rain, rain, 
Bones of St. Botolph, and put out 

this fire! 


Exeunt all but 
KEMPTHORN, and 


The drum beats. 
MERRY, 
COLE. 


MERRY. 

And now that matter’s ended, 
Goodman Cole, 

Fetch me a mug of ale, your 
strongest ale. 


KEMPTHORN (sitting down). 
And me another mug of flip; and 
put 

Two gills of brandy in it. 

[Exit COLE. 
MERRY. 

No; no more. 
Not a drop more, I say. You’ve 
had enough. 19s 


KEMPTHORN. 
And who are you, sir? 


MERRY. 


I’m a Tithing-mar, 
And Merry is my name. 


KEMPTHORN. 


A merry name} 
I like it; and I’ drink your 
merry health 
Till all is blue. 


MERRY. 


And then you will be clapped 

Into the stocks, with the red let 
ter D 

Hung round about your neck for 
drunkenness. 

You ’re a free-drinker, — yes, and 
a free-thinker ! 


KEMPTHORN. 


And you are Andrew Merry, or 
Merry Andrew. 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


623 





MERRY. 


My name is Walter Merry, and 
not Andrew. 


200 
KEMPTHORN. 
Andrew or Walter, you ’re a merry 
fellow ; 


IT ’ll swear to that. 


MERRY. 


No swearing, let me tell you. 
The other day one Shorthose had 
his tongue 
Put into a cleft stick for profane 
swearing. 
COLE brings the ale. 


KEMPTHORN. 
Well, where’s my flip? As sure as 
my name’s Kempthorn — 
MERRY. 
Is your name Kempthorn? 


KEMPTHORN. 
That’s the name I go by. 


MERRY. 
What, Captain Simon Kempthorn 
of the Swallow ? 
KEMPTHORN. 
No other. 
MERRY (touching him on the 
shoulder). 
Then you're wanted. I arrest you 
In the King’s name. 
KEMPTHORN. 
And where ’s your warrant? 


MERRY (unfolding a paper, and 


reading). 
Here. 
Listen to me. ‘Hereby you are 
required, 210 
In the King’s name, to apprehend 
the body 
OF Simon Kempthorn, mariner, 
and him 


Safely to bring before me, there to 
answer 

All such objections as are laid to 
him, 

Touching the Quakers.’ Signed, 
John Endicott. 


KEMPTHORN. 
Has it the Governor’s seal? 


MERRY. 
Ay, here it is. 


KEMPTHORN. 

Death’s head and _ cross-bones, 
That’s a pirate’s flag! 
MERRY. 

Beware how you revile the Magis- 

trates ; 
You may be whipped for that. 


KEMPTHORN. 
Then mum 's the word, 


Exeunt MERRY and KEMP- 
THORN. 


COLE. 

There’s mischief brewing! Sure, 
there's mischief brewing! 

I feel like Master Josselyn when 
he found 221 

The hornet’s nest, and thought it 
some strange fruit, 

Until the seeds came out, and 
then he dropped it. ([Ewxit. 


ScENE III.— A room in the Gov- 
_ernor'’s house. Enter Gov- 
ERNOR ENDICOTT and MERRY. 


ENDICOTT, 
My son, you say? 


MERRY. 
Your Worship’s eldest son. 


ENDICOTT. 
Speaking against the laws? 


624 





MERRY. 
Ay, worshipful sir. 


ENDICOTT. 
Ana in the public market-place ? 


MERRY. 
I saw him 
With my own eyes, heard him 
with my own ears. 


ENDICOTT. 
Impossible! 


MERRY. 


He stood there in the crowd 
With Nicholas Upsall, when the 
laws were read 
To-day against the Quakers, and I 
heard him 230 
Denounce and vilipend them as 


unjust, 
And cruel, wicked, and abomina.- 
ble. 
ENDICOTT. 
Urgrateful son! O God! thou 
layest upon me 
A burden heavier than I can 
bear! 
Surely the power of Satan must be 
great 
Upon the earth, if even the elect 
Are thus deceived and fall away 
from grace! 
MERRY. 


Worshipful sir! I meant no harm — 


ENDICOTT. 


*T is well. 
You’ve done your duty, though 
you ’ve done it roughly, 
And every word you’ve uttered 
since you came 240 
Has stabbed me to the heart! 


MERRY. 


I do beseech 
Your Worship’s pardon! 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





ENDICOTT. 

He whom I have nurtured 

And brought up in the reverence 
of the Lord! 

The child of all my hopes and my 


affections ! 

He upon whom I leaned as a sure 
staff 

For my old age! It is God’s 
chastisement 

For leaning upon any arm but 
His! 

MERRY. 
Your Worship !— 
ENDICOTT. 

And this comes from Aolding par- 
ley 

With the delusion and deceits of 
Satan. 


At once, forever, must they be 
crushed out, 250 

Or all the land will reek with her- 
esy! 

Pray, have you any children? 


MERRY. 
No, not any. 


ENDICOTT. 


Thank God for that. He has de. 
livered you 
From a great care. 
private griefs 
Too long have kept me from the 
public service. 
Exit MERRY. ENDICOTT seats 
himself at the table and are 
ranges his papers. 


Enough; my 


The hour has come; and I am 
eager now 
To sit in judgment on these Here 


ties. 
A knock. 


Come in. Who is it? (Not look 
ing up). 
JOHN ENDICOTT. 
It is I. 


THE NEW ENGLAND. TRAGEDIES 





ENDICOTT (restraining himself). 
Sit down! 


JOHN ENDICOTT (sitting down). 


I come to intercede for these poor 
people 

Who are in prison, and await their 
trial. 260 


ENDICOTT. 


It is of them I wish to speak with 
you. 

I have been angry with you, but 
*t is passed. 

For when I hear your footsteps 
come or go, 

See in your features your dead mo- 
ther’s face, 

And in your voice detect some 
tone of hers, 

All anger vanishes, and I remem- 
ber 

The days that are no more, and 
come no more, 

When as a child you sat upon my 
knee, 

And prattled of your playthings, 
and the games 

You played among the pear-trees 
in the orchard! 270 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


Oh, let the memory of my noble 
mother 

Plead with you to be mild and 
merciful! 

For mercy more becomes a Magis- 
trate 

Than the vindictive wrath which 
men call justice! 


ENDICOTT. 


The sin of heresy is a deadly sin. 

’T is like the falling of the snow, 
whose crystals 

The traveller plays with, thought- 
less of his danger, 

Until he sees the air so full of 
light 

That it is dark; and blindly stag- 
gering onward, 


625 





Lost and bewildered, he sits down 
to rest; 280 

There falls a pleasant drowsiness 
upon him, ; 

And what he thinks is sleep, alas! 
is death. 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


And yet who is there that has 
never doubted ? 

And doubting and believing, has 
not said, 

‘Lord, I believe; help thou my un- 
belief °? 


ENDICOTT. 


In the same way we trifle with our 
doubts, 

Whose shining shapes are like the 
stars descending; 

Until at last, bewildered and dis- 
mayed, ; 

Blinded by that which seemed to 
give us light, 

We sink to sleep, and find that it 
is death, 290 

Rising. 

Death to the soul through all eter- 
nity ! 

Alas that I should see you growing 
up 

To man’s estate, and in the admo-. 
nition 

And nurture of the Law, to find 
you now 

Pleading for Heretics! 


JOHN ENDICOTT (rising). 


In the sight of God, 

Perhaps all. men are Heretics. 
Who dares 

To say that he alone has found 
the truth?’ 

We cannot always feel and think 
and act 

As those who go before us. 
you done so, 

You would not now be here. 


Had 
299 


ENDICOTT. 
Have you forgotten 


626 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





The doom of Heretics, and the fate 
of those 

Who aidand comfort them? Have 
you forgotten 

That in the market-place this very 
day 

You trampled on the laws? What 
right have you, 


An inexperienced and untravelled 
youth, 

To sit in judgment here upon the 
acts 

Of older men and wiser than your- 
self, 

Thus stirring up sedition in the 
streets, 

And making me 4 byword and a 
jest? 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


Words of an inexperienced youth 
like me 


310 

Were powerless if the acts of 
older men 

Went not before them. ’Tis 


these laws themselves 
Stir up sedition, not my judgment 
of them. 


ENDICOTT. 


Take heed, lest I be called, as 
Brutus was, 

To be the judge of my own son! 
Begone! 

When you are tired of feeding 
upon husks, 

Return again to duty and submis- 
sion, 

But not till thea. 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


I hear and I obey! 
[Exit. 
ENDICOTT. 
Oh happy, happy they who have 
no children! 
He’s gone! I hear the hall door 
shut behind him. 320 
It sends a dismal echo through my 
heart, 


As if forever it had closed between 
us, 

And I should look upon his face 
ho more! 

Oh, this will drag me down into 
my grave, — 

To that eternal resting -place 
wherein 

Man lieth down, and riseth not 
again! 

Till the heavens be no more he 
shall not wake, 

Nor be roused from his sleep; for 
Thou dost change 

His countenance, and sendest him 


away ! 329 
[Exit. 

ACT III 
SCENE I.— The Court of Assist- 
ants. ENDICOTT, BELLING- 
HAM, ATHERTON, and other 
magistrates. KEMPTHORN, 


MERRY, and constables.  Af- 
terwards WHARTON, EDITH, 
and CHRISTISON, 


ENDICOTT. 
Call Captain Simon Kempthorn. 


MERRY. 


Simon Kempthorn, 
Come to the bar! 


KEMPTHORN comes forward. 


ENDICOTT. 


You are accused of bringing 

Into this Jurisdiction, from Bar- 
badoes, 

Some persons of that sort and 
sect of people 

Known by the name of Quakers, 
and maintaining 

Most dangerous and_ heretical 
opinions; 

Purposely coming here to propa- 
gate 

Their heresies and errors; bring 
ing with them 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


627 





And spreading sundry books here, 
which contain 

Their doctrines most corrupt and 
blasphemous, 10 

And contrary to the truth pro- 
fessed among us. 

What say you to this charge? 


KEMPTHORN. 


I do acknowledge, 
Among the passengers on board 
the Swallow 
Were certain persons saying Thee 
~ and Thou. 
They seemed a harmless people, 
mostways silent, 
Particularly when they said their 
prayers. 


ENDICOTT. 


Harmless and silent as the pesti- 
lence! 

You’d better have brought the 
fever or the plague 

Among us in your ship! 
fore, this Court, 

For preservation of the Peace and 


There- 


Truth, 20 

Hereby commands you speedily to 
transport, 

Or cause to be transported speed- 
ily, 

The aforesaid persons hence unto 
Barbadoes, 


From whence they came; you pay- 
ing all the charges 
Of their imprisonment. 


KEMPTHORN. 


Worshipful sir, 
No ship e’er prospered that has 
carried Quakers 
Against their will! I knew a ves- 
sel once — 


ENDICOTT. 


And for the more effectual per- 
formance 

Hereof you are to give security 

In bonds amounting to one hun- 
dred pounds. 30 


On your refusal, you will be com- 
mitted 
To prison till you do it. 


KEMPTHORN. 
But you see 
I cannot do it. The law, sir, of 
Barbadoes 
Forbids the landing Quakers on 
the island. 


ENDICOTT. 


Then you will be committed. 
Who comes next ? 


MERRY. 


There is another charge against 
the Captain. 


ENDICOTT. 
What is it? 


MERRY. 
Profane swearing, please your 
Worship. © 
He cursed and swore from Dock 
Square to the Court-house. 


ENDICOTT. 
Then let him stand in the pillory 
for one hour. 39 
[Exit KEMPTHORN with consta- 
ble. 
Who’s next? 
MERRY. 


The Quakers, 
ENDICOTT. 
Call them. 


MERRY. 


Edward Wharton, 
Come to the bar! 


WHARTON, 
Yea, even to the bench 


ENDICOTT, 
Take off your hat. 


625 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





WHARTON. 
My hat offendeth not. 
If it offendeth any, let him take 
it; 
For I shall not resist. 
ENDICOTT. 
Take off his hat. 
Let him be fined ten shillings for 


contempt. 
MERRY takes off WHARTON’S 
hat. 
WHARTON. 


What evil have I done? 


ENDICOTT. 


Your hair ’s too long; 
And in not putting off your hat to 
us 
You’ve disobeyed and broken 
that commandment 
Which sayeth ‘Honor thy father 
and thy mother.’ 


WHARTON. 

John Endicott, thou art ae 
too proud ; 

And lovest him who putteth oft 
the hat, 

And honoreth thee by bowing of 
the body, 

And sayeth ‘Worshipful sir!’ 


’T is time for thee 

To give such follies over, for thou 
mayest 

Be drawing very near unto thy 
grave. 
ENDICOTT. 

Now, sirrah, leave your canting. 
Take the oath. 

WHARTON. 
Nay, sirrah me no sirrahs! 


ENDICOTT. 
Will you swear? 


WHARTON, 
Nay, I will not. 


ENDICOTT. 
You made a great disturbance 
And uproar yesterday in the 
Meeting-house, 59 
Having your hat on. 


WHARTON. 
I made no disturbance ; 
For peacefully I stood, like other 
people. 
I spake no words; moved against 
none my hand ; 
But by the hair they haled me out, 
and dashed 
Their books into my face. 


ENDICOTT. 


You, Edward Wharton, 
On pain of death, depart this Ju- 
risdiction 
Within ten days. 
sentence. Go. 


Such is your 


WHARTON. 


John Endicott, it had been well for 
thee 

If this day’s doings thou hadst 
left undone. 

But, banish me as far as thou hast 


power, 
Beyond the guard and presence of 
my God 7o 


Thou canst not banish me! 


ENDICOTT. 


Depart the Court ; 
We have no time to listen to your 
babble. 


Who’s next? [Exit WHARTON. 


MERRY. 


This woman, for the same of: 
fence. 
EDITH comes forward. 


ENDICOTT. 
What is your name? 


EDITH. 


’T is to the world unknown, 
But written in the Book of Life. 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


629 





ENDICOTT. 
Take heed 
It be not written in the Book of 
Death! 
What is it? 
EDITH. 


Edith Christison. 


ENDICOTT (with eagerness). 


The daughter 
Of Wenlock Christison ? 


EDITH. 
I am his daughter. 


ENDICOTT. 

Your father hath given us trouble 
many times. 

A bold man and a violent, who 
sets 80 

At naught the authority of our 
Church and State 

And is in banishment on pain of 
death. 

Where are you living ? 


EDITH. 
In the Lord. 


ENDICOTT. 


Make answer 
Without evasion. Where? 


EDITH. 


My outward being 
Is in Barbadoes. 


ENDICOTT. 
Then why come you here? 


EDITH. 


I come upon an errand of the 
Lord. 


ENDICOTT. 


'T is not the business of the Lord 
you’re doing; 

It is the Devil’s. 
the oath ? 

Give her the Book. 
MERRY offers the book. 


Will you take 


EDITH. 
You offer me this Book 
To swear on; and it saith, ‘Swear 
not at all, go 
Neither by heaven, because it is 
God’s Throne, 
Nor by the earth, because it is his 
footstool!’ 
I dare not swear. 


ENDICOTT. 
You dare not? Yet you Quakers 
Deny this Book of Holy Writ, the 
Bible, 
To be the Word of God. 


EDITH (reverentially). 
Christ is the Word, 
The everlasting oath of God. I 
dare not. 


ENDICOTT. 


You own yourself a Quaker, — do 
you not? 


EDITH. 


I own that in derision and re- 
proach 
Tam so called. 


ENDICOTT. 


Then you deny the Scripture 
To be the rule of life. 


EDITH. 


Yea, I believe 
The Inner Light, and not the Writ- 
ten Word, IOL 

To be the rule of life. 


ENDICOTT. 


And you deny 
That the Lord’s. Day is holy. 


EDITH., 


Every day 
Is the Lord’s Day. Itruns throug} 
all our lives, 
As through the pages of the Holy 
Bible, 
| ‘ Thus saith the Lord.’ 


630 





ENDICOTT. 
You are accused of making 
An horrible disturbance, and af- 
frighting 


The people in the Meeting-house. 


on Sunday. 
What answer make you? 


EDITH. 
I do not deny 
That I was present in your Steeple- 
house I10 
On the First Day; but I made no 
disturbance. 


ENDICOTT. 
Why came you there? 


EDITH. 


Because the Lord commanded. 

His word was in my heart, a burn- 
ing fire 

Shut up within me and consuming 
me, 

And I was very weary with for- 
bearing; 

I could not stay. 


ENDICOTT. 
’T was not the Lord that sent 
you; 
As an inearnate devil did you 
come! 
EDITH. 


On the First Day, when seated, in 
my chamber, 

I heard the bells toll, calling you 
together, 

The sound struck at my life, as 
once at his, 120 

The holy man, our Founder, when 
he heard 

The far-off bells toll in the Vale of 
Beavor. 

Tt sounded like a market bell to 
eall 

The folk together, that the Priest 
might set 

His wares to sale. And the Lord 
said within me, 


CHRISTUS?" A MYSTERY 


« 


‘Thou must go cry aloud against 
that Idol, 

And all the worshippers thereof.’ 
I went 

Barefooted, clad in sackcloth, and 
T stood 

And listened at the threshold; and 
I heard 

The praying and the singing and 
the preaching, 130 

Which were but outward forms, 
and without power. 

Then rose a ery within me, and my 
heart 

Was filled with admonitions and 
reproofs. 

Remembering how the Prophets 
and Apostles 

Denounced the covetous hirelings 
and diviners, 

I entered in, and spake the words 
the Lord 

Commanded me to ee I could 
no less. 


ENDICOTT. 
Are you a Prophetess ? 


EDITH. 

Ts it not written, 

‘Upon my handmaideus will I pour 
out 


139 
My spirit, and they shall pro 
phesy’? 
ENDICOTT. 
Enough; 


For out of your own mouth are 
you condemned ! 
Need we hear further? 


THE JUDGES. 
We are Satisfied. 


ENDICOTT. 


Tt is sufficient. Edith Christison, 

The sentence of the Court is, that 
you be 

Scourged in three towns, with forty 
stripes save one, 

Then banished upon pain of death’ 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


631 





EDITH. 


Your sentence 
Is truly no more terrible to me 
Than had you blown a feather 
into the air, 
And, as it fell upon me, you had 
said, 
Take heed it hurt thee not!’ 
God’s will be done! 150 


WENLOCK CHRISTISON (unseenin 
the crowd). 

Woe to the city of blood! 
stone shall cry 

Out of the wall; the beam from 
out the timber 

Shall answer it! Woe unto him 
that buildeth 

A town with blood, and stablish- 
eth a city 

By his iniquity ! 


The 


ENDICOTT. 


Who is it makes 
Such outcry here? 


CHRISTISON (coming forward). 
I, Wenlock Christison ! 


ENDICOTT. 
Banished on pain of death, why 
come you here? 


CHRISTISON. 


I come to warn you that you shed 
no more 

The blood of innocent men! It 
cries aloud 159 

For vengeance to the Lord! 


ENDICOTT. 


Your life is forfeit 
Unto the law; and you shall surely 
die, : 
And shall not live. 


CHRISTISON. 


Like unto Eleazer, 
Maintaining the excellence of an- 
cient years 
-And the honor of his gray head, I 
stand before you; 


Like him disdaining all hypo. 


crisy, 

Lest, through desire to live a little 
longer, 

I get a stain to my old age and 
name ! 

ENDICOTT. 

Being in banishment, on pain of 
death, 

You come now in among us in re- 
bellion. 

CHRISTISON. 

I come not in among you in rebel- 
lion, 170 

But in obedience to the Lord of 
Heaven. 

Not in contempt to any Magis- 
trate, 

But only in the love I bear your 
souls, 

As ye shall know hereafter, when 
all men 

Give an account of deeds done in 
the body! 

God’s righteous judgments ye can- 
not escape. 


ONE OF THE JUDGES. 


Those who have gone before you 
said the same, 

And yet no judgment of the Lord 
hath fallen 

Upon us. 


CHRISTISON. 


He but waiteth till the measure 

Of your iniquities shall be filled 

up, 180 

And ye have run your race. Then 
will his wrath 

Descend upon you to the utter- 


most! 

For thy part, Humphrey Atherton, 
it hangs 

Over thy head already. It shall 
come 

Suddenly, as a thief doth in the 
night, 

And in the hour when least thou 
thinkest of it! 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





632 
ENDICOTT. 
We have a law, and by that law 
you die. 
CHRISTISON. 
I, a free man of England and free- 
born, : 
Appeal unto the laws of mine own 
nation ! 
ENDICOTT. 


There’s no appeal to England 
from this Court! 190 

What! do you think our statutes 
are but paper? 

Are but dead leaves that rustle in 
the wind ? 

Or litter to be trampled under 
foot? 

What say ye, Judges of the Court, 

— what say ye? 

this man suffer death? 
Speak your opinions. 


Shall 


ONE OF THE JUDGES. 


Iam a mortal man, and die I must, 

And that erelong; and I must 
then appear 

Before the awful judgment-seat of 
Christ, 

To give account of deeds done in 
the body. 

My greatest glory on that day will 
be, 200 

That I have given my vote against 
this man. 


CHRISTISON. 


If, Thomas Danforth, thou hast |- 


nothing more 

To glory in upon that dreadful 
day 

Than blood of innocent people, 
then thy glory 

Will be turned into shame! 
Lord hath said it! 


The 


ANOTHER JUDGE. 


I cannot give consent, while other 
men 

Who have been banished upon 
pain of death 


Are now in their own houses here 
among us. 


ENDICOTT. 


Ye that will not consent, make 
record of it. 21@ 

I thank my God that I am not 
afraid 

To give my judgment. Wenlock 
Christison, 

You must be taken back from 
hence to prison, 

Thence to the place of public exe. 
cution, 

There to be hanged till you be 
dead — dead — dead! 


CHRISTISON. 


If ye have power to take my life 
from me, — 

Which I do question, — God hath 
power to raise 

The principle of life 
men, 

And send them here among you. 
There shall be 

No peace unto the wicked, saith 
my God. 

Listen, ye Magistrates, for the 
Lord hath said it! 220 

The day ye put his servitors to 
death, 

That day the Day of your own 
Visitation, 

The Day of Wrath, shall pass 
above your heads, 


in other 


And ye shall be accursed forever- 


more! 


To EDITH, embracing her. 
Cheer up, dear heart! they have 
not power to harm us. 
[Exeunt CHRISTISON and EDITH 
guarded. The Scene closes. 


SCENE II.— A street. Enter JOHN 
ENDICOTT and UPSALL. 
JOHN ENDICOTT. 


Scourged in three towns! and yet 
the busy people 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


633 





-Go up and down the streets on 


their affairs 

Of business or of pleasure, as if 
nothing 

Had happened to disturb them or 
their thoughts! 

When bloody tragedies like this 
are acted, 


stand still; 


The town should be in mourning, 


and the people 


Speak only in low whispers to each 
1 You shall be welcome for your 


other. 


UPSALL. 


I know this people; 
underneath 


fire 


That will find vent, and will not | 
| Both ways alike, and wounding 


be put out, 

Till every remnant of these bar- 
barous laws 

Shall be to ashes burned, and 
blown away. 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


Scourged in three towns! 
credible 

Such things can be! I feel the 
blood within me 


It is in- 


in vain 
Have I implored compassion of 
my father ! 


UPSALL, 


You know your father only as a 
father ; 

I know him better as a Magis- 
trate. 

He is a man both loving and se- 
vere ; 

A tender-heart ; a will inflexible. 

None ever loved him more than I 
have loved him. 

He is an upright man and a just 
man 

In all things save the treatment 
of the Quakers. 


230. 
The pulses of a nation should’ 


and that: 


240 
Fast mounting in rebellion, since ' 





JOHN ENDICOTT. 
Yet I have found him cruel and 


unjust 250 
Even as a father. He has driven 
me forth 
Into the street; has shut his door 
upon me, 


With words of bitterness. I am 
as homeless 


As, these poor Quakers are. 


UPSALL. 
Then come with me. 


father’s sake, 
And the old friendship that has 
been between us, 


| He will relent erelong. A father’s 
A cold outside there burns a secret : 


anger 
Is like a sword without a handle, 
piercing 


him that wields it 259 
No less than him that it is pointed 
at. [Exeunt. 


SCENE III. The prison. Night. 
_EDITH reading the Bible by a 
lamp. 


EDITH. 


‘Blessed are ye when men shall 
persecute you, 


} And shall revile you, and shall say 


against you 

All manner of evil falsely for my 
sake ! 

Rejoice, and be exceeding glad, 
for great 

Is your reward in heaven. For so 
the prophets, 

Which were before you, have been 
persecuted.’ 


Enter JOHN ENDICOTT. 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 
Edith! 


EDITH. 
Who is it that speaketh? 


634 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





JOHN ENDICOTT. 


Saul of Tarsus: 


As thou didst call me once. 


EDITH (coming forward). 


Yea, I remember. 
Thou art the Governor’s son. 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


I am ashamed 
Thou shouldst remember me. 


EDITH. 


Why comest thou 

Into this dark guest-chamber in 

the night? 271 
What seekest thou? 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 
Forgiveness! 
EDITH. 
I forgive 


All who have injured me. What 
hast thou done? 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 
I have betrayed thee, thinking 
that in this 
I did God service. Now, in deep 
contrition, 
I come to rescue thee. 


EDITH. 
From what? 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 
From prison. 


EDITH. 


J am safe here within these gloomy 
walls. 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


From scourging in the streets, and 
in three towns! 


EDITH. 


Remembering who was scourged 
for me, I shrink not 


Nor shudder at the forty stripes 


Save one. 28a 


JOHN ENDICOTT. | 
Perhaps from death itself! 


EDITH. 


I fear not death 
Knowing who died for me. 


JOHN ENDICOTT (aside). 


Surely some divine 
Ambassador is speaking through 
those lips 
And looking through those eyes! 
I cannot answer! 


EDITH. 


If all these prison doors stood 
opened wide 

I would not cross the threshold, — 
not one step. 

There are invisible bars I cannot 
_break ; 

There are invisible doors that shut 
me in, 

And keep me ever steadfast to my 
purpose. 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


Thou hast the patience and the 
faith of Saints ! 290 


EDITH. 


Thy Priest hath been with me 
this day to save me, 

Not only from the death that 
comes to all, 

But from the second death! 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


The Pharisee ! 

My heart revolts against him and 
his creed! 

Alas! the coat that was without a 
seam 

Is rent asunder by contending 
sects ; 

Each bears away a portion of the 
garment, 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


63° 





Blindly believing that he has the 
whole! 


EDITH. 


When Death, the Healer, shall 
have touched our eyes 

With moist clay of the grave, then 
shall we see 300 

The truth as we have never yet 
beheld it. 


But he that overcometh shall not | 


be 


Hurt of the second death. Has he | 


forgotten 
The many mansions in our father’s 
house? 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


There is no pity in his iron heart! 

The hands that now bear stamped 
-upon their palms 

The burning sign of Heresy, here- 
after 

Shall be uplifted against such ac- 
cusers, 

And then the imprinted letter and 
its meaning 

Will not be Heresy, but Holi- 
ness! 310 


EDITH. 


Remember, thou condemnest thine 
own father! 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


I have no father! He has cast me 
off. 

Iam as homeless as the wind that 
moans 


And wanders through the streets. 
Oh, come with me! 

Do not delay. Thy God shall be 
my God, 

And where thou goest I will go. 


EDITH. 


I cannot. 

Yet will I not deny it, nor conceal 
it; 

From the first moment I beheld 
thy face 


I felt a tenderness in my soul to- 
wards thee. 

My mind has since been inward to 
the Lord, 320 

Waiting his word. It has not yet 
been spoken. 


JSOHN ENDICOTT. 


I cannot wait. Trust me. Oh, 
come with me! 
EDITH. 
In the next room, my father, an 
old man, 
Sitteth imprisoned and condemned 
to death, 
Willing to prove his faith by mar- 


tyrdom; 
And thinkest thou his daughter 
would do less? ; 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


Oh, life is sweet, and death is ter. 
rible! ; 


EDITH. 


I have too long walked hand in 
hand with death 
To shudder at that pale familiar 


face. 
But leave me now. I wish to be 
alone. 330 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 
Not yet. Oh, let me stay. 


EDITH. 
Urge me no more, 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


Alas! good-night. I will not say 
good-by! 


EDITH. 


Put this temptation underneath 
thy feet. 

To him that overcometh shall be 
given 

The white stone with the new 
name written on it, 


636 





That no man knows save him that 
doth receive it, 

And I will give thee anew name, 
and ¢all thee 

Paul of Damascus and not Saul of 
Tarsus. 


[Exit ENDICOTT. EDITH sits 
down again to read the Bible. 


ACT IV 


SCENE I.— King Street, in front | oT) : : 
of the town-house. KEMPTHORN | For, do you see? I’m getting tired 


in the pillory. MERRY and a 
crowd of lookers-on. 


KEMPTHORN (sings). 


. The world is full of care, 
Much like unto a bubble; 

Women and care, and care and women, 
And women and care and trouble. 


Good Master Merry, may I say 
confound? 


MERRY. 
Ay, that you may. 


KEMPTHORN. 


_ Well, then, with your permission, 
Confound the Pillory! 


MERRY. 


That ’s the very thing 

The joiner said who made the 
Shrewsbury stocks. 

He said, Confound the stocks, be- 
cause they put him 

Into his own. He was the first 

man in them. 10 


KEMPTHORN. 
For swearing, was it? 


MERRY. 


No, it was for charging ; 
He charged the town too much; 
and so the town, 
To make things square, set him in 
his own stocks, 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





And fined him five pound sterling, 
— just enough 
To settle his own bill. 
KEMPTHORN. 


And served him right, 
But, Master Merry, is it not eight 
bells? 


MERRY. 
Not quite. 


KEMPTHORN. 


Of being perched aloft here in this 


cro’ nest 

Like the first mate of a whaler, or 
a Middy 

Mast-headed, looking out for land! 
Sail ho! 20 

Here comes a heavy-laden mer- 
chantman 


With the lee clews eased off, and 
running free 
Before the wind. A solid man of 


Boston. 
A comfortable man, with divi 
dends, j 
And the first salmon, and the first 
green peas. 


A gentleman passes. 


| He does not even turn his head to 


look. 


1 He’s gone without a word. Here 


comes another, 


| A different kind of craft on a taut 


bowline, — 
Deacon Giles Firmin the apothe- 
Cary, 29 


A pious and a ponderous citizen, 
Looking as rubicund and round 
and splendid 
As the great bottle in his own shop 
window! 
DEACON FIRMIN passes. 
And here’s my host of the Three 
Mariners, 
My creditor and trusty taverner, 
My corporal in the Great Artib 
lery! 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


He’s not a man to pass me with- 
out speaking. 


COLE looks away and passes. 


Don’t yaw so; keep your luff, old 
hypocrite! 

Respectable, ah yes, respectable, 

You, with your seat in the new 
Meeting-house, 

Your cow-right on the Common! 
But who’s this ? 40 

I did not know the Mary Ann was 
in! 

And yet this is my old friend, 
Captain Goldsmith, 

As sure as I stand in the bilboes 
here. 

Why, Ralph, my boy! 

Enter RALPH GOLDSMITH. 


GOLDSMITH. 
Why, Simon, is it you? 
Set in the bilboes? 
KEMPTHORN. 


Chock-a-block, you see, 
And without chafing-gear. 


GOLDSMITH. 
And what’s it for? 


KEMPTHORN. 


Ask that starbowline with the 
boat-hook there, 
That handsome man. 


MERRY (bowing). 
For swearing. 


KEMPTHORN. 


In this town 

They put sea-captains in the stocks 
for swearing, 

And Quakers for not swearing. 


So look out. 50 
GOLDSMITH. 
I pray you set him free; he meant 
no harm; 


637 


MERRY. 
Well, as your time is out, you may 
come down. 
The law allows you now to go at 
large 
Like Elder Oliver’s horse upon the 
Common. 


KEMPTHORN. 
Now, hearties, bear a hand! 
go and haul. 


Let 


KEMPTHORN is set free, and comes 
forward, shaking GOLDSMITH’S 
hand. 

KEMPTHORN. 

Give me your hand, Ralph. Ah, 

how good it feels! 

The hand of an old friend. 


GOLDSMITH. 
God bless you, Simon! 


KEMPTHORN. 


Now let us make a straight wake 
for the tavern 

Of the Three Mariners, Samuel 
Cole commander ; 60 

Where we can take our ease, and 
see the shipping, 

And talk about old times. 


GOLDSMITH. 


First I must pay 
My duty to the Governor, and take 
him 
His letters and dispatches. 
with me. 


Come 


KEMPTHORN. 
I’d rather not. I saw him yester. 
day. 
GOLDSMITH. 
Then wait for me at the Three 
Nuns and Comb. 


KEMPTHORN, 


I thank you. That’s too near to 
the town pump. 


Tis an old habit he picked up| I will go with you to the Gov. 


afloat. 


a 


ernor’s, 


638 





And wait outside there, sailing off 
and on; 

If I am wanted, you can hoist a 
signal. 70 


MERRY. 

Shall I go with you and point out 
the way? 

GOLDSMITH. 

Oh no, I thank you. I am nota 
stranger 

Here in your crooked little town. 

MERRY. 


How now, sir? 
Do you abuse our town? [Eaxit. 


GOLDSMITH. 
Oh, no offence. 


KEMPTHORN. 


Ralph, I am under bonds for a 
hundred pound. 


GOLDSMITH. 
Hard lines. What for? 


KEMPTHORN. 


To take some Quakers back 
I trought here from Barbadoes in 
the Swallow. 
And how to do it I don’t clearly see, 
For one of them is banished, and 


another 
Is sentenced to be hanged! What 
shall I do? 80 
GOLDSMITH. 


Just slip your hawser on some 
cloudy night ; 

Sheer off, and pay it with the top- 
sail, Simon! [Exeunt. 


SCENE II. — Street in front of the 
prison. In the background a 
gateway and several flights of 
steps leading wp terraces to the 
Governor’s house. A pump on 
one side of the street. JOHN 
ENDICOTT, MERRY, UPSALL, 
and others. A drum beats. 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 


a 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 
Oh shame, shame, shame! 


MERRY. 


Yes, it would be a shame 
But for the damnable sin of 
Heresy! 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


A woman scourged and dragged 
about our Streets! 


MERRY. 


Well, Roxbury and Dorchester 
must take 

Their share of shame. 
whipped in each! 

Three towns, and Forty Stripes 
save one; that makes 

Thirteen in each. 


She will be 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


And are we Jews or Christians ? 
See where she comes, amid a gap- 


ing crowd! ; 9a 
And she a child. Oh, pitiful! piti- 
ful! 


There ’s blood upon her clothes, 
her hands, her feet! 


Enter MARSHAL and a drummer, 
EDITH stripped to the waist, 
followed by the hangman with @& 
scourge, and a noisy crowd. 


EDITH. 


Here let me rest one moment. T 
am tired. 
Will some one give me water ? 


MERRY. 
At his peril, 


UPSALL. 


Alas! that I should live to see this 
day! 


A WOMAN. 


Did I forsake my father and my 
mother 

And come here to New England 
to see this? 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


639 





EDITH. 


I, of the household of Iscariot, 


Tam athirst. Willno one give me | I have betrayed in thee my Lord 


water? 
JOHN ENDICOTT (making his way 
through the crowd with water). 
In the Lord’s name! 


EDITH (drinking). 
In his name I receive it! 
Sweet as the water of Samaria’s 
well 100 
This water tastes. I thank thee. 
Is it thou? 
I was afraid thou hadst deserted 
me. 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 
Never will I desert thee, nor deny 
thee. 
Be comforted. 
MERRY. 


O Master Endicott, 
Be careful what you say. 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 
Peace, idle babbler! 


MERRY. 
You'll rue these words! 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 
Art thou not better now ? 


EDITH. 
They ’ve struck me as with roses. 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


Ah, these wounds! 
These bloody garments! 


EDITH. 


It is granted me 
To seal my testimony with my 
blood. 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


D blood-red seal of man’s vindic- 
tive wrath! 110 
D roses of the garden of the Lord! 


and Master ! 


WENLOCK CHRISTISON appears 
above, at the window of the 
prison, stretching out his hands 
through the bars. 


CHRISTISON. 


Be of good courage, O my child’ 
my child! 

Blessed art thou when men shall 
persecute thee! 

Fear not their faces, saith the 
Lord, fear not, 

For I am with thee to deliver 
thee. 


A CITIZEN. 


Who is it crying from the prison 
yonder? 


MERRY. 
It is old Wenlock Christison. 


CHRISTISON. 


Remember 
Him who was scourged, and 
mocked, and crucified! 120 
I see his messengers attending 
thee. 
Be steadfast, oh, be steadfast t¢ 
the end! 


EDITH (with exultation). 


I cannot reach thee with these 
arms, O father! 

But closely in my soul do I em- 
brace thee 

And hold thee. In thy dungeon 
and thy death 

I will be with thee, and will com- 
fort thee! 


MARSHAL. 


Come, put an end to this. 
drum beat. 


The drum beats. Exeunt all but 


JOHN ENDICOTT, UPSALL, and 
MERRY. 


Let the 








640 CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 
CHRISTISON. CHRISTISON. 
Dear child, farewell! Never shall Antiochus! Antiochus: 
I behold O thou that slayest the Maccabees! 


Thy face again with these bleared 


eyes of flesh; 

And never wast thou fairer, love- 
lier, dearer 130 

Than now, when scourged and 
bleeding, and insulted 

For the truth’s sake. O pitiless, 
pitiless town! 

The wrath of God hangs over thee; 
and the day 

Is near at hand when thou shalt 
be abandoned 

To desolation and the breeding of 
nettles. 

The bittern and the cormorant 
shall lodge 

Upon thine upper lintels, and their 
voice 

Sing in thy windows. 
saith the Lord! 


Yea, thus 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 
Awake! awake! ye sleepers, ere 
too late, 139 
And wipe these bloody statutes 
from your books! [Exit. 


MERRY. 
Take heed; the walls have ears! 


UPSALL. 
At last, the heart 
Of every honest man must speak 
or break! 


; Enter GOVERNOR ENDICOTT with 
his halberdiers. 


ENDICOTT. 


What is this stir and tumult in the 
street? 


MERRY. 


Worshipful sir, the whipping of a 


girl, 
And her old father howling from 
the prison. 


ENDICOTT (to his halberdiers). 
Go on. : 





The Lord 
Shall smite thee with incurable 


disease, 
And no man shall endure to carry 
thee! 149 
MERRY. 


Peace, old blasphemer ! 


CHRISTISON. 


I both feel and see 
The presence and the waft of death 
go forth 
Against thee, and already thou 
dost look 
Like one that’s dead! 


MERRY (pointing). 
And there is your own son, 
Worshipful sir, abetting the sedi- 
tion. 


ENDICOTT, 


Arrest him. Do not spare him. 


MERRY (aside). 


His own ehild! 

There is some special providence 
takes care 

That none shall be too happy in 
this world ! 


| His own first-born. 


ENDICOTT. 


O Absalom, my son! 

[Exeunt ; the Governor with his 

halberdiers ascending the steps 
of his house. 


SCENE III. — The Governor’s pri- 
vate room. Papers upon the 
table. ENpbiIcoTTt and BEL- 
LINGHAM. 


ENDICOTT. 

There is a ship from England has 
come in, ; 

Bringing dispatches and much 

news from home. 166 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


641 





- His Majesty was at the Abbey 
crowned ; 

And when the coronation was com- 
plete 

There passed a mighty tempest 
o’er the city, 

Portentous with great thunder- 
ings and lightnings. 


BELLINGHAM. 


After his father’s, if I well re- 
member, 

There was an earthquake, that 
foreboded evil. 


ENDICOTT. 


Ten of the Regicides have been 
put to death! 

The bodies of Cromwell, Ireton, 
and Bradshaw 

Have been dragged from their 
graves, and publicly 169 

Hanged in their shrouds at Ty- 
burn. 


BELLINGHAM. 
Horrible! 


ENDICOTT. 


Thus the old tyranny revives 
again ! 

Its arm is long enough to reach us 
here, 

As you will see. 
sulting still 

Than flaunting in our faces dead 
men’s shrouds, 

Here is the King’s Mandamus, tak- 
ing from us, 

From this day forth, all power to 
punish Quakers. 


For, more in- 


BELLINGHAM. 
That takes from us all power: we 
are but puppets, 
And can no longer execute our 
laws. 


ENDICOTT. 


iis Majesty begins with pleasan 
words, 


‘ Trusty and well-beloved, we greet 
you well;’ 180 
Then with a ruthless hand he 
strips from me 
All that which makes me what I 
am; as if 
From some old general in the field, 
grown gray 
service, scarred with many 
wounds, 
Just at the hour of victory, he 
should strip 
His badge of office and his well- 
gained honors, 
And thrust him back into the ranks 
again. 


In 


Opens the Mandamus and hands 
it to BELLINGHAM; and, while 
heis reading, ENDICOTT walks 
up and down the room. 


Here, read it for yourself; you see 
his words 

Are pleasant words — considerate 
—not reproachful — 

Nothing could be more gentle — or 
more royal; 190 

But then the meaning underneath 
the words, 

Mark that. He says all people 
known as Quakers 

Among us, now condemned to suf- 
fer death 

Or any corporal punishment what- 
ever, 

Who are imprisoned, or may be 
obnoxious 

To the like condemnation, shall be 
sent 

Forthwith to England, to be dealt 
with there 

In such wise as shall be agree- 


able 
Unto the English law and their 
demerits. 199 


Ts it not so? 


BELLINGHAM (returning the 
paper). 
Ay, so the paper stays. 


642 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





ENDICOTT. 

It means we shall no longer rule 
the Province ; 

It means farewell to law and lib- 


erty, 

Authority, respect for Magis- 
trates, 

The peace and welfare of the Com- 
monwealth. 

If all the knaves upon this conti- 
nent 

Can make appeal to England, and 
so thwart 

The ends of truth and justice by 
delay, 


Our power is gone forever. We 
are nothing 

But ciphers, valueless save when 
we follow 

Some unit; and our unit is the 
King! 

*T is he that gives us value. 


210 


BELLINGHAM. 
I confess 
Such seems to be the meaning of 
this paper, 
But being the King’s Mandamus, 
signed and sealed, 
We must obey, or we are in rebel- 
lion. 


ENDICOTT. 


I tell you, Richard Bellingham, — 
T tell you, 

That this is the beginning of a 
struggle 

Of which no mortal can foresee 
the end. 

I shall not live to fight the battle 


for you, 

I am a man disgraced in every 
way ; 

This order takes from me my self- 
respect 220 

And the respect of others. °’Tis 
my doom, 

Yes, my death-warrant, but must 
be obeyed! 

Take it, and see that it is exe- 
cuted 


So far as this, that all be set at 
large ; 

But see that none of them be sent 
to England 

To bear false witness, and to 
spread reports 

That might be prejudicial to our- 
selves. 

[Exit BELLINGHAM. 

There ’s a dull pain keeps knock. 
ing at my heart, 

Dolefully saying, ‘Set thy house 

in order, 

thou shalt surely die, and 

shalt not live!’ 230 

For me the shadow on the dial- 


For 


plate 
Goeth not back, but on into the 
dark! [Exit. 


SCENE IV.— The street. Acrowd, 
reading a placard on the door 
of the Meeting-house. NICHO- 
LAS UPSALL among them. En- 
ter JOHN NORTON. 


NORTON. 
What is this gathering here? 


UPSALL. 


One William Brand, 

An old man like ourselves, and 
weak in body, 

Has been so cruelly tortured in 
his prison, 

The people are excited, and they 
threaten 

To tear the prison down. 


NORTON. 
What has been done? 


UPSALL. 


He has been put in irons, with his 
neck 

And heels tied close together, and 
so left 

From five in the morning until 
nine at night. 24¢ 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


643 





NORTON. 
What more was done? 


UPSALL. 
He has been Kept five days 
In prison without food, and cruelly 
beaten, 
So that his limbs were cold, his 
senses stopped. 


NORTON. 
What more? 


UPSALL. 
And is this not enough? 


NORTON. 


Now hear me. 
This William Brand of yours has 
tried to beat 
Our Gospel Ordinances black and 
blue; 
And, if he has been beaten in like 
manner, 
It is but justice, and I will appear 
In his behalf that did so. I suppose 
That he refused to work. 


UPSALL. 


He was too weak. 
How could an old man work, when 
he was starving ? 251 


NORTON. 
And what is this placard? 


UPSALL. 


The Magistrates, 

To appease the people and pre- 
vent a tumult, 

Have put up these placards 
throughout the town, 

_ Declaring that the jailer shalt be 
dealt with 

Impartially and sternly by the 
Court. 


NORTON (tearing down the wpla- 
card). 
Down witb this weak and cowardly 
concession, 


This flag of truce with Satan and 
with Sin! 

IT fling it in his face! 

Under my feet! Jt is his cunning 
craft, 260 

The masterpiece of his diplomacy, 

To cry and plead for boundless 
toleration. 

But toleration is the first - born 
child 

Of all abominations and deceits. 

There is no room in Christ’s trium- 
phant army 

For tolerationists. And if an An- 
gel 

Preach any other gospel unto you 

Than that ye have received, God’s 


I trample it 


malediction 
Descend upon him! Let him be 
accursed! [Exit. 
UPSALL. 


Now, go thy ways, John Norton! 
ge thy ways, 270 

Thou Orthodox Evangelist,as men 
call thee! 

But even now there cometh out of 
England, 

Like an o’ertaking and accusing 
conscience, 

An outraged man, to call thee to 
account 

For the unrighteous murder of his 
son! [Exit. 


SCENE V.— The Wilderness. 
ter EDITH. 


En 


EDITH. 


How beautiful are these autumnal 
woods! 

The wilderness doth blossom like 
the rose, 

And change into a garden of the 
Lord! 

How silent everywhere! 
and lost 

Here in the forest, there comes 
over me 280 

An inward awfulness. I recall 
the words 


Alone 


644 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





Of the Apostle Paul: 
neyings often, 

Often in perils in the wilderness, 

In weariness, in painfulness, in 
watchings, 

In hunger and thirst, in cold and 
nakedness ;’ 

And I forget my weariness and 
pain, 

My watchings, and my hunger and 
my thirst. 

The Lord hath said that He will 
seek his flock 

In cloudy and dark days, and they 
shall dwell 

Securely in the wilderness, and 
sleep 290 

Safe in the woods! Whichever 
way I turn, 

I come back with my face towards 
the town. 

Dimly I see it, and the sea beyond 
it: 

O cruel town! 
me there, 

And yet I must go back; for ever 
louder 

I hear the inward calling of the 
Spirit, 

And must obey the voice. O woods, 
that wear 

Your golden crown of martyrdom, 
blood-stained, 

From you I learn a lesson of sub- 
mission, 299 

And am obedient even unto death, 

If God so wills it. [Eait. 


‘In jour- 


I know what waits 


JOHN ENDICOTT (within). 
Edith! Edith! Edith! 


He enters. 


It is in vain! I call, she answers 
not; 

I follow, but I find no trace of her! 

Blood! blood! The leaves above 
me and around me 

Are red with blood! The path- 
ways of the forest, 

The clouds that canopy the setting 
sun 


And even the little river in the 
meadows 

Are stained with it! 
look, I see it! 

Away, thou horrible vision! Leave 
me! leave me! 

Alas! yon winding stream, that 
gropes its way 310 

Through mist and shadow, dou- 
bling on itself, 

At length will find, by the unerr- 
ing law 

Of nature, what it seeks. 
of man, 

Groping through mist and shadow, 
and recoiling 

Back on thyself, are, too, thy devi- 
ous ways 

Subject to law? and when thou 
seemest to wander 

The farthest from thy goal, art 
thou still drawing 

Nearer and nearer to .it, till at 
length 

Thou findest, like the river, what 
thou seekest ? [Hait. 


Where’er I 


O soul 


ACT V 


ScENE I.— Daybreak. Street in 
Front of UPSALL’S house. A 
light in the window. Enter 
JOHN ENDICOTT. 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


O silent, sombre, and deserted 
streets, 

To me ye’re peopled with a sad 
procession, 

And echo only to the voice of sor. 
row! 

O houses full of peacefulness and 
sleep, 

Far better were it to awake no 
more 


Than wake to look upon such 
scenes again ! 

There is a light in Master Upsall’s 
window. 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


645 





The good man is already risen, for 
sleep 
Deserts the couches of the old. 
Knocks at UPSALL’S door. 


UPSALL (at the window). 
Who’s there ? 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 
Am I so changed you do not 
know my voice? 10 
UPSALL, 
I know you. Have you heard 
what things have happened ? 
JOHN ENDICOTT. 
I have heard nothing. 


UPSALL. t 
Stay; I will come down. 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 
Jam afraid some dreadful news 


awaits me! 

I do not dare to ask, yet am impa- 
tient 

To know the worst. Oh, I am 
very weary 


With waiting and with watching 
and pursuing! 


Enter UPSALL. 


UPSALL. 


Thank God, you have come back! 
I *ve mueh to tell you. 
Where have you been? 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 
You know that I was seized, 


Fined, and released again. You 
know that Edith, 

After her scourging in three 
towns, was banished 20 


Jnto the wilderness, into the land 
That is not sown; and there I fol- 
lowed her, 

But found her not. 

she ? 


Where is 


UPSALL. 
She is here. 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 
Oh, do not speak that word, for it 
means death! 


UPSALL. 

No, it means life. She sleeps in 
yonder chamber. 

Listen to me.. When news of 
Leddra’s death 

Reached England, Edward Bur- 
roughs, having boldly 

Got access to the presence of the 


King, 

Told him there was a vein of inno- 
cent blood 

Opened in his dominions here, 
which threatened 30 

To overrun them all. The King 
replied, 


‘But I will stop that vein!’ and 
he forthwith 

Sent his Mandamus to our Magis. 
trates, 

That they proceed no further in 
this business. 

So allare pardoned, and all set at 
large. 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


Thank God! This is a victory for 
truth ! 

Our thoughts are free. They can- 
not be shut up 

In prison walls, nor put to death 
on scaffolds ! 


UPSALL, 
Come in; the morning air blows 
sharp and cold 
Through the damp streets. 


JOHN ENDICOTT. 


It is the dawn of day 

That chases the old darkness from 
our sky, 

And fills the land with liberty and 

light. [Exeunts 


646 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





ScENE II.— The parlor of the 
Three Mariners. Enter KEMP- 
THORN. 


KEMPTHORN. 


A dull life this,— a dull life any- 
way! 

Ready for 
aboard, 

Cleared for Barbadoes, and a fair 
wind blowing 

From nor’-nor’-west; and I, an 
idle lubber, 

Laid neck and heels by that con- 
founded bond ! 

I said to Ralph, says I,‘ What’s 
to be done ?’ 

Says he: ‘ Just slip your hawser 
in the night; 

Sheer off, and pay it with the top- 
sail, Simon.’ 50 

But that won’t do; because, you 
see, the owners. 

Somehow or other are mixed up 
with it. 
Here are King Charles’s Twelve 
Good Rules, that Cole 
Thinks as important as the Rule 
of Three. 

Reads. 

*Make no comparisons; make no 
long meals.’ 

Those are good rules and golden 
for a landlord 

To hang in his best parlor, framed 
and glazed ! 

‘Maintain no ill opinions ; urge no 
healths.’ 

I drink the King’s, whatever he 


sea; the cargo all 


may say, . 
And, as to ill opinions, that de- 
pends. 60 


Now of Ralph Goldsmith I’vea 
good opinion, 

And of the bilboes I’ve an ill 
opinion ; 

And both of these opinions I ’ll 
maintain 

As long as there ’sa shot left in 
the locker. 


ear-trumpet. 


BUTTER, 
Good morning, Captain Kemp 
thorn. 


KEMPTHORN. 
Sir, to you. 
You’ve the advantage of me. I 
don’t know you. 
What may I call your name? 


BUTTER. 
That ’s not your name ? 


KEMPTHORN. 
Yes, that’s my name. 
yours ? 


What ’s 


BUTTER. 


My name is Butter. 
I am the treasurer of the Com. 
monwealth. 69 


KEMPTHORN. 
Will you be seated ? 


BUTTER. 
What say? Who’s conceited? 


KEMPTHORN. 
Will you sit down? 


BUTTER. 
Oh, thank you. 


KEMPTHORN. — 


Spread yourself 
Upon this chair, sweet Butter. 


BUTTER (sitting down). 
A fine morning. 


KEMPTHORN. 


Nothing ’s the matter with it that 
I know of. 

I have seen better, and I have seen 
worse. 

The wind’s nor’west. That’s 
fair for them that sail. 


BUTTER. 


.| You need not speak so loud; I 
Enter EDWARD BUTTER with an 


understand you. 
You sail to-day. 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


647 





KEMPTHORN. 


No, I don’t sail to-day. 
No, be it fair or foul, it matters 
not. 
Say, will you smoke? 
choice tobacco here. 


There’s 


BUTTER. 
No, thank you. It ’s against the 
law to smoke. 80 
KEMPTHORN. 


Then, will you drink? There’s 


good ale at this inn. 


BUTTER. 


No, thank you. It’s against the 
law to drink. 


KEMPTHORN. 


Well, almost everything’s against 
the law 

In this good town. Give a wide 
berth to one thing, 

You’re sure to fetch up soon on 
something else. 


BUTTER. 


And so you sail to-day for dear Old 
England. 

I am not one of those who think a 
sup 

Of this New England air is better 
worth 

Than a whole draught of our Old 
England’s ale. 


KEMPTHORN. 

Nor I. Give me the ale and rhe 
the air. 

But, as I said, I do not sail today 


BUTTER. 
Ah yes; you sail to-day. 


KEMPTHORN. 


I’m under bonds 
To take some Quakers back to the 
Barbadoes ; 
And one of them is banished, and 
another 
Js sentenced to be. hanged. 


BUTTER. 
No, all are pardoned, 

All are set free, by order of the 
Court; 

But some of them would fain re, 
turn fo England. 

You must not take them. Upon 
that condition 

Your bond is cancelled. 


KEMPTHORN. 
Ah, the wind has shifted! 
I pray you, do you speak officially ? 


BUTTER. 


Talways speak officially. To prove 
it, IOI 
Here is the bond. 
Rising and giving a paper. 


KEMPTHORN,. 
- And here’s my hand upon it. 
And, look you, when I say I'll do 
a thing 
The thing is done. Am I now free 
to go? 


BUTTER. 
What say ? 


KEMPTHORN. 


I say, confound the tedious.man 
With his strange speaking-trum- 
pet! CanI go? 


BUTTER, 
You're free to go, by order of the 
Court. 


Your servant, sir. [Eaxit. 


KEMPTHORN (shouting from the 
window). . 
Swallow, ahoy! Hallo! 
If ever a man was happy to leave 
Boston, : 
That man is Simon Kempthorn of 
the Swallow! 1IG 


Reénter BUTTER. 


BUTTER. 
Pray, did you call? 


648 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





KEMPTHORN. 
Call? Yes, I hailed the Swallow. 


BUTTER. 


That’s not my name. My name is 
Edward Butter. 
You need not speak so loud. 


KEMPTHORN (shaking hands). 
Good-by! Good-by! 


BUTTER. 
Your servant, sir. 


KEMPTHORN. 


And yours a thousand times! 
[Exeunt. 


Scexs ITT.— GOVERNOR ENDI- 


co. US private room. An open 
vw low. ENDICOTT seated in 
av urm-chair. BELLINGHAM 


Staiuding near. 


ENDICOTT. 
O lost, 0 loved! wilt thou return 
no more ? 


O loved and lost, and loved the 
more when lost! 

How many men are dragged into 
their graves 

By their rebellious children! I 
now feel 

The agony of a father’s breaking 

heart 

In David's cry, ‘O Absalom, my 
son!? 120 


BELLINGHAM. 


Can you not turn your thoughts a 
little while 

To public matters? There are pa- 
pers here 

That need attention. 


ENDICOTT. 
Trouble me no more! 
My business now is with another 
world. 


Ah, Richard Bellingham! I greatly 
fear 

That in my righteous zeal I have 
been led 

To doing many things which, left 
undone, 

My mind would now be easier. 
Did I dream it, 

Or has some person told me, that 
John Norton 


Is dead ? 
BELLINGHAM. 
You have not dreamed it. He is 
dead, 130 
And gone to his reward. It was 
no dream. 
ENDICOTT. 
Then it was very sudden; for I 
saw him 
Standing where you now stand, not 
long ago. 
BELLINGHAM. 
By his own fireside, in the after- 
noon, 
A faintness and a giddiness came 
o’er him; 


And, leaning on the chimney- 
piece, he cried, 

‘The hand of God is on me!’ and 
fell dead. 


ENDICOTT. 


And did not some one say, or have 
I dreamed it, 
That Humphrey Atherton is dead ? 


BELLINGHAM. 


Alas! 

He too is gone, and by a death as 
sudden. 140 

Returning home one evening, at 
the place 

Where usually the Quakers have 
been seourged, 

His horse took fright, and threw 
him to the ground, 

So that his brains were dashed 
about the street. 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


649 





ENDICOTT. 
I am not superstitious, Belling- 
ham, 
And yet I tremble lest it may have 
been 
A judgment on him. 


BELLINGHAM. 
So the people think. 
They say his horse saw standing 
in the way 
The ghost of William Leddra, and 
was frightened. 
And furthermore, brave Richard 


Davenport, «50 
The captain of the Castle, in the 
storm 


Has been struck dead by lightning. 


ENDICOTT. 


Speak no more. 
For as I listen to your voice it 
‘ seems 
As if the Seven Thunders uttered 
their voices, 
And the dead bodies lay about the 
streets 
Of the disconsolate city! 
ham, 
I did not put those wretched men 
to death. 
I did but guard the passage with 
the sword 
Pointed towards them, and they 
rushed upon it! 
Yet now I would that I had taken 
no part 160 
In all that bloody work. 


Belling- 


BELLINGHAM. : 
The guilt of it 
Be on their heads, not ours. 
ENDICOTT. 
Are all set free ? 


BELLINGHAM. 
all are at large. 


ENDICOTT. 
And none have been sent back 


To England to malign us with the 
King ? 


BELLINGHAM. 
The ship that brought them sails 
this very hour, 
But carries no one back. 
A distant cannon. 


ENDICOTT. 
What is that gun, 


BELLINGHAM. 


Her parting signal. Through the 
window there, 

Look, you can see her sails, above 
the roofs, 

Dropping below the Castle, out. 
ward bound. 


ENDICOTT. 


O white, white, white! Would 
that my soul had wings 170 

As spotless as those shining sails 
to fly with! 

Now lay this cushion straight. I 
thank you. Hark! 

I thought I heard the hall door 
open and shut! 

I thought I heard the footsteps of 
my boy! 


BELLINGHAM. 


It was the wind. There ’s no one 
‘ in the passage. 


ENDICOTT. 


O Absalom, my son! 
world 

Sinking beneath me, sinking, sink- 
ing, sinking! 

Death knocks! I go to meet him’ 
Welcome, Death! 


I feel the 


Rises, and sinks back dead; his 
head falling aside upon his 
shoulder. 


BELLINGHAM, 


O ghastly sight! Like one whe 
has been hanged! 


' 650 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





He makes 
180 


Endicott! Endicott! 
no answer! 


Raises ENDICOTT’S head. 
He breathes nomore! How bright 
this signet-ring 
Glitters upon his hand, where he 
has worn it 
Through such long years of trou- 
ble, as if Death 
Had given him this memento of 
affection, 
And whispered in his ear, ‘ Re- 
member me!’ 
How placid and how quiet is his 
face, 
Now that the struggle and the 
strife are ended! 
Only the acrid spirit of the times 


Corroded this true steel. Oh, rest 
in peace, 

‘Courageous heart! Forever rest 
in peace ! 190 


GILES COREY OF THE SALEM 
FARMS 


DRAMATIS PERSONA 


Giues Corry .. Farmer. 

JoHN HaTHORNE. Magistrate. 

Corron MaTHER. Minister of the Gos- 
pel, 


JONATHAN WALCOTT A youth. 

RICHARD GARDNER Sea- Captain. 

JoHN GLOYD Corey’s hired man. 
MARTHA. . Wife of Giles Corey. 
TITUBA 


Mary Wancor One of the Afflicted. 


The Scene is in Salem in the year 1692. 


PROLOGUE 


DELUSIONS of the days that once 
have been, 

Witchcraft and wonders of the 
world unseen, 

Phantoms of air, and necromantic 
arts 

That crushed the weak and awed 
the stoutest hearts, — 

These are our theme to-night ; and 
vaguely here, 


- An Indian woman. | 


Through the dim mists that crowd 
the atmosphere, 

We draw the outlines of weird 
figures cast 

In shadow on the background of 
the Past. 


Who would believe that in the 
quiet town 

Of Salem, and amid the woods iat 
crown 

The neighboring hillsides, and the 
sunny farms 

That fold it safe in their paternal 
arms, — 

Who would believe that in those 
peaceful streets, 

Where the great elms shut out the 
summer heats, 

Where quiet reigns, and breathes 
through brain and breast 

The .benediction of unbroken 
rest, — : 

Who would believe such deeds 
could find a place 

As these whose tragic history we 
retrace ? 


°T was but a village then: the 
goodman ploughed 
His ample acres under sun or 


cloud ; 20 
The goodwife at her doorstep sat 
and spun, 


And gossiped with her neighbors 
in the sun; 

The only men of dignity and state 

Were then the Minister and the 
Magistrate, 

Who ruled their little realm with 
iron rod, 

Less in the love than in the fear 
of God; 

And who believed devoutly in the 
Powers 

Of Darkness, working 
world of ours, 

In spells of Witchcraft, incanta- 
tions dread, 

And shrouded apparitions of the 
dead. 3@ 


in this 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


651 


Se ne ee ET ne 


Upon this simple folk ‘ with fire 
and flame,’ 

Saith the old Chronicle, ‘ the Devil 
came ; 

Scattering his firebrands and his 
poisonous darts, 

To set on fire of Hell all tongues 
and hearts! 

And ’*t is no wonder; for, with all 
his host, 

There most he rages where he 
hateth most, 

And is most hated; so on us he 
brings 

All these stupendous and portent- 
ous things!” 


Something of this our scene to- 
night will show; 

And ye who listen to the Tale of 
Woe, 40 

Be not too swift in casting the first 
stone, 

Nor think New England bears the 
guilt alone. 

This sudden burst of wickedness 
and crime 

Was but the common madness of 
the time, 

When in all lands, that lie within 
the sound 

Of Sabbath bells, a Witch was 
burned or drowned. 


ACT I 


SCENE I.— The woods near Sa- 
lem Village. Enter TITUBA, 
with a basket of herbs. 


TITUBA. 


Here ’s monk’s-hood, that breeds 
fever in the blood; 

And deadly nightshade, 
makes men see ghosts ; 

And henbane, that will shake them 
with convulsions ; 

And meadow-saffron and black 
hellebore, 

That rack the nerves, and puff the 
skin with dropsy ; 


that 


And bitter-sweet, and briony, and 
eyebright, 

That cause eruptions, nosebleed, 
rheumatisms; 

I know them, and the places 
where they hide 

In field and meadow; and I know 
their secrets, 

And gather them because they 
give me power 10 

Over all men and women. Armed 
with these, 

J, Tituba, an Indian and a slave, 

Am stronger than the captain with 
his sword, 

Am richer than the merchant with 
his money, 

Am wiser than the scholar with 
his books, 

Mightier than Ministers and Ma- 
gistrates, 

With all the fear and reverence 
that attend them! 

For I can fill their bones with 
aches and pains, 

Can make them cough with asth- 
ma, shake with palsy, 

Can make their daughters see and 
talk with ghosts, 20 

Or fall into delirium and convul 
sions. 

I have the Evil Eye, the Evil 
Hand ; 

A touch from me and they are 
weak with pain, 

A look from me, and they consume 
and die. 

The death of cattle and the blight 
of corn, 

The shipwreck, the tornado, and 
the fire, — 

These are my doings, and they 
know it not. 

Thus I work vengeance on mine 
enemies, 

Who, while they call me slave, are 
slaves to me! 


Exit TITUBA. Enter MATHER, 
booted and spurred, with a rid- 
ing-whip in his hand. 


652 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





MATHER. 
Methinks that I have come by 
paths unknown 30 
Into the land and atmosphere of 
Witches ; 
For, meditating as I journeyed on, 
Lo! Ihave lost my way! If I re- 


member 

Rightly, it is Scribonius the 
learned 

That tells the story of a man who, 
praying 


For one that was possessed by 
Evil Spirits, 
Was struck by Evil Spirits in the 


face ; 

I, journeying to circumvent the 
Witches, 

Surely by Witches have been led 
astray. 

I am persuaded there are few 
affairs 40 

In which the Devil doth not inter- 
fere. 

We cannot undertake a journey 
even, 

But Satan will be there to meddle 
with it 


By hindering or by furthering. He 
hath led me 

Into this thicket, struck me in the 
face 

‘With branches of the trees, and so 
entangled 

The fetlocks of my horse with 
vines and brambles, 

That I must needs dismount, and 
search on foot 

For the lost pathway leading to 
the village. 

Reénter TITUBA. 

What shape is this? What mon- 
strous apparition, 50 

Exceeding fierce, that none may 
pass that way ? 

Tell me, good woman, if you are a 
woman — 


TITUBA. 


I am a woman, but I am not good. 
tam a Witch! 


MATHER. 
Then tell me, Witch and woman, 
For you must know the pathways 
through this wood, 
Where lieth Salem Village? 


TITUBA. 


Reverend sir, 

The village is near by. I’m going 
there 

With these few herbs. 

you. Follow me. 


I'll lead 


MATHER. 


First say, who are you? I am 
loath to follow 
A stranger in this wilderness, for 


fear 60 
Of being misled, and left in some 
morass. 


Who are you? 


TITUBA. 


Iam Tituba the Witch, 
Wife of John Indian. 


MATHER. 


You are Tituba? 

I know you then. You have re- 
nounced the Devil, 

And have become a penitent con- 
fessor. 

The Lord be praised! 
follow you. 

Wait only till I fetch my horse, 
that stands 

Tethered among the trees, not far 
from here. 


Go on, Ill 


TITUBA. 


Let me get up behind you, reverend 
sir. 


MATHER. 


The Lord forbid! What would the 
people think, 7G 

If they should see the Reverend 
Cotton Mather 

Ride into Salem with a Witch be 
hind him ? 

The Lord forbid! 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


653 





TITUBA. 
I do not need a horse! 


f can ride through the air upon a 
_ stick, 
Above the tree-tops and above the 
houses, 
And no one see me, no one over- 
take me! [Exeunt. 


SCENE II.— A room at JUSTICE 
HATHORNE’S. A clock in the 
corner. Enter HATHORNE and 
MATHER. 


HATHORNE. 


You are welcome, reverend sir, 
thrice welcome here 
Beneath my humble roof. 


MATHER. 
I thank your Worship. 


HATHORNE. 


Pray you be seated. You must be 
fatigued 
With your long ride through un- 
frequented woods. 80 
They sit down. 


MATHER. 


You know the purport of my visit 
here, — 

To be advised by you, and counsel 
with you, 

And with the Reverend Clergy of 
the village, 

Touching these witchcrafts that so 
much afflict you ; 

And see with mine own eyes the 
wonders told 

Of spectres and the shadows of 
the dead, 

That come back from their graves 
to speak with men. 


HATHORNE. 


Some men there are, I have known 
such, who think 

That the two worlds—the seen 
and the unseen, 


The world of matter and the world 
of spirit — go 

Are like the hemispheres upon our 
maps, 

And touch each other only at a 
point. 

But these two worlds are not 
divided thus, 


Save for the purposes of common 


speech. 

They form one globe, in which the 
parted seas 

All flow together and are inter- 
mingled, 

While the great continents remain 
distinct. 


MATHER. 


I doubt it not. The spiritual 
world 

Lies all about us, and its avenues 

Are open to the unseen feet of 
phantoms 100 

That come and go, and we per- 
ceive them not, 

Save by their influence, or when at 
times 

A most mysterious Providence 
permits them 

To manifest themselves to mortal 
eyes. 


HATHORNE. 


You, who are always welcome here 
among us, 

Are doubly welcome now. We 
need your wisdom, 

Your learning in these things, to 
be our guide. 

The Devil hath come down in 
wrath upon us, 

And ravages the land with all his 
hosts. 


MATHER, 


The Unclean Spirit said, ‘ My 
name is Legion!’ 110 

Multitudes in the Valley of De- 
struction! 

But when our fervent, well-directed 
prayers, 


654. 





Which are the great artillery of 
Heaven, 

Are brought into the field, I see 
them scattered 

And driven like autumn leaves be- 
fore the wind. 


HAT HORNE. 


You, aS a Minister of God, can 
meet them 

With spiritual weapons; but, alas! 

TI, as a Magistrate, must combat 
them 

With weapons from the armory of 
the flesh. 


MATHER. 


These wonders of the world in- 
visible, — 

These spectral shapes that haunt 
our habitations, — 

The multiplied and manifold afflic- 
tions 

With which the aged and the dying 
saints 

Have their death prefaced and 
their age imbittered, — 

Are but prophetic trumpets that 
proclaim 

The Second Coming of our Lord on 
earth. 

The evening wolves will be much 
more abroad, 

When we are near the evening of 
the world. 


HATHORNE. 


When you shall see, as I have 
hourly seen, 

The sorceries and the witcherafts 
that torment us, 130 

See children tortured by invisible 
spirits, | 

And. wasted and consumed by 
powers unseen, 

You will confess the half has not 
been told you. 


MATHER, 


it must be so. The death-pangs 
of the Devil 


120 


CHRISTUS: ‘A MYSTERY 





Will make him more a Devil than 
before ; 

And Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace 
will be heated 

Seven times more hot before its 
putting out. 


HATHORNE. 


Advise me, reverend sir. 
you 

For counsel and for guidance in 
this matter. 

What further shall we do? 


I look to 


MATHER. 


Remember this, 
That as a sparrow falls not to the 


ground 14f 
Without the will of God, so not a 
Devil 


Can come down from the air with- 
out his leave. 


We must inquire. * 
HATHORNE. 
Dear sir, we have inquired; 


Sifted the matter thoroughly 
through and through, 
And then resifted it. 


MATHER. 


If God permits 

These Evil Spirits from the unseen 
regions 

To visit us with surprising infor- 
mations, 

We must inquire what cause there 
is for this, 

But not receive the testimony 


borne 150 
By spectres as conclusive proof oi 
guilt 


In the accused. 


HATHORNE. 


Upon such evidence 
We do not rest our case. The 
ways are many 
In which the guilty do betray 
themselves. 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


655 





MATHER. 

Be careful. Carry the knife with 
such exactness, 

That on one side no innocent blood 


be shed 

By too excessive zeal, and on the 
other 

No shelter given to any work of 
darkness. 

HATHORNE. 

For one, I do not fear excess of 
zeal. 

What do we gain by parleying with 
the Devil? 

You reason, but you. hesitate to 


act! 

Ah, reverend sir! believe me, in 
such cases 

The only safety is 
promptly. 

*T is not the part of wisdom to de- 
lay 

In things where not to do is still 
to do 

A deed more fatal than the deed 
we shrink from. 

You are a man of books and medi- 
tation, 

But I am one who acts. 


in acting 


MATHER. 


God give us wisdom 
In the directing of this thorny 
business, 
And guide us, lest New England 
should become 170 
Of an unsavory and sulphurous 
odor 
In the opinion of the world abroad! 
The clock strikes. 
T never hear the striking of a clock 
Without a warning and an admoni- 
tion 
That time is on the wing, and we 
must quicken 
Our tardy pace 
Heavenward, 
Israel did 
Canaan-ward ! 
They rise. 


in journeying 


AS in journeying 


160 |! ; 
‘One last assault, more deadly and 


HATHORNE. 
Then let us make all haste; and I 
will show you 
-In what disguises and what fear- 
ful shapes 
The Unclean Spirits haunt this 


neighborhood, 180 
And you will pardon my excess of 
zeal, 
MATHER. 
Ah, poor New England! He who 
hurricanoed 
The house of Job is making now 
on thee 


more snarled 
With unintelligible circumstances 


‘Than any thou hast hitherto en- 


countered! [£zeunt. 


' 


SCENE III.— 4 room in WAL- 
coT’s house. MARY WALCor 
seated in an arm-chair. Tr 
TUBA with a mirror. 


MARY. 


Tell me another story, Tituba. 

A drowsiness is stealing over 
me 

Which is not sleep; for, though I 
close mine eyes, 

T am awake, and in another world. 

Dim faces of the dead and of the 
absent Igt 

Come floating up before me,— 
floating, fading, 

And disappearing. 


TITUBA. 


Look into this Jee 
What see you? 


MARY. 
Nothing but a golden vapor. 
Yes, something more. <An island, 
with the sea 


Breaking all round it, like a bloome 


ing hedge. 
What land is this ? 


656 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





TITUBA. 
It is San Salvador, 


Where Tituba was born. What 
see you how ? 
MARY. 
A man all black and fierce. 
TITUBA. 
That is my father. 
He was an Obi man, and taught 
me magic, — 200 
Taught me the use of herbs and 
images. 
What is he doing? 
MARY. 
Holding in his hand 


A waxen figure. He is melting it 
Slowly before a fire. 


TITUBA. 
And now what see you? 


MARY. 


A woman lying on a bed of leaves, 
Wasted and worn away. Ah, she 
is dying! 


TITUBA. 


That is the way the Obi men de- 
stroy 

The people they dislike! 
the way 

Some one is wasting and consum- 
ing you. 


That is 


MARY. 
You terrify me, Tituba! Oh, save 
me 210 
From those who make me pine 
and waste away! 
Who are they? Tell me. 


TITUBA. 


That I do not know, 
But you will see them. They will 
come to you. 


MARY. 


No, do not let them come! 
not bear it! 


I can- 


Tam 


I am too weak to bear it! 
dying. 
Falls into a trance. 


TITUBA. 


Hark! there is some one coming! 
Enter HATHORNE, MATHER, and 
WALCOT. 


WALCOT. 


There she lies, 

Wasted and worn by devilish ine 
cantations ! 
O my poor sister! 


MATHER. 
Is she always thus # 


WALCOT. 


Nay, she is sometimes tortured by 
convulsions. 


MATHER. 


Poor child! How thin she is! 
How wan and wasted! 220 


HATHORNE. 


Observe her. She is troubled in 
her sleep. : 


MATHER. 
Some fearful vision haunts her. 


HATHORNE. 


You now see 
With your own eyes, and touch 
with your own hands, 
The mysteries of this Witchcraft. 


MATHER. 


One would need 
The hands of Briareus and the 
eyes of Argus 
To see and touch them all. 


HATHORNE. 


You now have entered 
The realm of ghosts and phan. 
toms, — the vast realm 
Of the unknown and the invisible, 
Through whose wide-open gateg 
there blows a wind 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


657 





From the dark valley of the shad- 
ow of Death, 230 
That freezes us with horror. 


MARY (starting). 


Take her hence! 
Take her away from me. I see 
her there! ; 
She ’s coming to torment me! 


WALCOT (taking her hand). 
O my sister! 
What frightens you? She neither 
hears nor sees me. 
She’s in a trance. 
MARY. 
Do you not see her there? 


TITUBA. 
My child, who is it? 


MARY. 
Ah, I do not know. 
I cannot see her face. 
TITUBA. 
How is she clad? 


MARY. 
She wears a crimson bodice. In 
her hand 
She holds an image, and Is pinch- 


ing it 
Between her fingers. Ah, she tor- 
tures me! 240 


I see her face now. It is Good- 
wife Bishop! 

Why does she torture me? Inever 
harmed her! 

And now she strikes me with an 
iron rod! 

Qh, I am beaten! 


MATHER. 


This is wonderful ! 
I can see nothing! Is this appari- 
tion 
Visibly there, and yet we cannot 
see it? 


HATHORNE. 

It is. The spectre is invisible 

Unto our grosser senses, but she 
sees it. 


MARY. 


Look! look! there is another clad 
in gray! 

She holds a spindle in her hand, 
and threatens 


250 

To stab me with it! It is Good- 
wife Corey! 

Keep her away! Now she is com- 
ing at me! 


O mercy! mercy! 


WALCOT (thrusting: with his 
sword). 
There is nothing there! 


MATHER (to HATHORNE). 
Do you see anything ? 


HATHORNE. 


The laws that govern 
The spiritual world prevent our 
seeing 
Things palpable and visible to her. 
These spectres are to us as if they 
were not. 
Mark her; she wakes. 
TITUBA touches her, and she 
awakes. 


MARY. 
Who are these gentlemen ? 


WALCOTT, 


They are our friends. Dear Mary, 
are you better? 


MARY. 


Weak, very weak. 
Taking a spindle from her Hi 
and holding it up. 
How came this spindle here? 


TITUBA. 


You wrenched it from the hand of 
Goodwife Corey 261 
When she rushed at you. 


658 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





HATHORNE. 
Mark that, reverend sir! 


MATHER. 


It is most marvellous, most inex- 
plicable! 


LITUBA (picking up a bit of gray 
cloth from the floor). 

And here, too, is a bit of her gray 
dress, 

That the sword cut away. 


MATHER. 
Beholding this, 


ulous 
To be incredulous than to be- 
lieve. 


of all 
Pertaining to the spiritual world, 
Could doubt such manifest and 
damning proofs! 270 


HATHORNE, 
Are you convinced ? 


MATHER (to MARY). 


Dear child, be comforted! 
Only by prayer and fasting can 
you drive 
These Unclean Spirits from you. 
An old man 
Gives you his blessing. 
with you, Mary! 


God be 


ACT II 


SCENE I.— GILES COREY’S farm. 
Morning. Enter CORBY, with a 
horseshoe and a hammer. 


COREY. 


The Lord hath prospered me. The 
rising sun 

Shines on my Hundred Acres and 
my woods 

As if he loved them. On a morn 
like this 





Ican forgive mine enemies, and 
thank God 

For all his goodness unto me and 
mine. 

My orchard groans with russets 
and pearmains ; 

My ripening corn shines golden in 
the sun; 

My barns are crammed with hay, 
my cattle thrive; 

The birds sing blithely on the 
trees around me! 

And blither than the birds my 

heart within me. ite} 


' But Satan still goes up and down 
It were indeed by far more cred- | 


the earth; 
And to protect this house from his 
assaults, 


And Keep the powers of darkness 
None but a Sadducee, who doubts | 


from my door, 


| This horseshoe will I nail upor 


the threshold. 
Nails down the horseshoe. 
There, ye night-hags and witches 
that torment 
The neighborhood, ye shall not 
enter here! — 
What is the matter in the field? — 
John Gloyd! 
The cattle are all running to the 
woods ! — 
John Gloyd! Where is the man? 


Enter JOHN GLOYD. 
Look there! 
What ails the cattle? Are they 


all bewitched? 20 
They run like mad. 


GLOYD. 
They have been overlooked. 


COREY. 
The Evil Eye is on them sure 
enough. 
Call all the men. Be quick. Go 
after them ! 
Exit GLOYD and enter MARTHA. 


MARTHA. 
What is amiss 2? 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


659 


COREY. 


The cattle are bewitched. | 
They are broken loose and mak- 
ing fer the woods. 


MARTHA. 


Why will you harbor such delu- 
sions, Giles? 

Bewitched? Well, then it was 
John Gloyd bewitched them; 

I saw him even now take down 

the bars 

And turn them loose! 
only frolicsome. 


They ’re 


COREY. 
The rascal! 


MARTHA, 


I was standing in the road, 
Talking with Goodwife Proctor, 
and I saw him. 31 


COREY. 


With Proctor’s wife? And what 
says Goodwife Proctor? 


MARTHA. 


Sad things indeed; the saddest 
you can hear 

Of Bridget Bishop. She’s cried 
out upon! 


COREY. 


Poor soul! I’ve known her forty 
year or more. 

She was the widow Wasselby: 
and then 

She married Oliver, and Bishop 
next. 

She’s had three husbands. 
member well 

My games of shovel-board at 
-Bishop’s tavern 

In the old merry days, and she so 
gay 40 

With her red paragon bodice and 
her ribbons! 

Ah, Bridget Bishop always was a 
Witch! 


I re- 


MARTHA. 

They ’l] little help her now, — her 
caps and ribbons, 

And her red paragon bodice, and 
her plumes, 

With which she flaunted in the 
Meeting-house ! 

When next she goes there, it will 
be for trial. 


COREY. 
When will that be ? 


MARTHA. 
This very day at ten. 


COREY. 


Then get you ready. We will go 
and see it. 

Come; you shall ride behind me 
ea the pillion. 


MARTHA. 


Not I. You know I do not like 
such things. 50 

I wonder you should. I do not be- 
lieve 

In Witches nor in Witchcraft. 


COREY. 


Well, I do. 
There’s a strange fascination in it 
all, 
That draws me on and on, I know 
not why. 


MARTHA, 


What do we know of spirits good 
or ill, : 

Or of their power to help us or to 
harm us? 


COREY. 


Surely what’s in the Bible must 
be true. 

Did not an Evil Spirit come on 
Saul? 

Did not the Witch of Endor bring 
the ghost 

Of Samuel from his grave? The 
Bible says so. 60 


660 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





MARTHA, 
That happened very long ago. 


COREY. 
With God 
There is no long ago. 


MARTHA. 
There is with vs. 


COREY. 


And Mary Magdalene had seven 
devils, 

And he who dwelt among the 
tombs a legion! 


MARTHA, 
God’s power is infinite. I do not 
doubt it. 
If in His providence He once per- 
mitted 
Such things to be among the Is- 
raelites, 


It does not follow He permits 
them now, 
And among us who are not Israel- 


ites. 
But we will not dispute about sm 
Giles. 
Go to the village, if you think it 
best, 
And leave me here; I’ll go about 
my work. 
[Exit into the house. 
COREY. 
And I will go and saddle the gray 
mare. 


The last word always. That is 
woman’s nature. 

If an old man will marry a young 
wife, 

He must make up his mind to 
many things. 

It’s putting new cloth into an old 
garment, 

When the strain comes, it is the 
old gives way. 

Goes to the door. 

Oh Martha! I forgot to tell you 

something. 


I’ve had a letter from a friend of 


mine, 80 

A certain Richard Gardner of Nan- 
tucket, 

Master and owner of a whaling- 
vessel; 

He writes that he is coming down 
to see us. 


I hope you ’ll like him. 


MARTHA. 
I will do my best. 


COREY. 


That’s a good woman. Now I will 
be gone. 

I’ve not seen Gardner for this 
twenty year; 

But there is something of the sea 
about him, — 

Something so open, 
large, and strong, 

It makes me love him better than 
a brother. [Huit. 

MARTHA comes to the door. 


generous, 


MARTHA. 


Oh these old friends and cronies 
of my husband, go 

These captains from Nantucket 
and the Cape, 

That come and turn my house into 
a tavern 

With their carousing! Still, there’s 
something frank 

In these seafaring men that makes 
me like them. 

Why, here’s a horseshoe nailed 
upon the doorstep! 


~Giles has done this to keep away 


the Witches. 

I hope this Richard Gardner will 
bring with him 

A gale of good sound common- 
sense to blow 

The fog of these delusions from 
his brain! 99 


COREY (within). 
Ho! Martha! Martha! 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


661 





Enter COREY. 
Have you seen my saddle? 


MARTHA. 
I saw it yesterday. 


COREY. 
Where did you see it? 


MARTHA, 
On a gray mare, that somebody 
was riding 
Along the village road. 
COREY. 
Who was it? Tell me. 


MARTHA, 


Some one who should have stayed 
at home. 


COREY (restraining himself). 


I see! 
Don’t vex me, Martha. Tell me 
where it is. 
MARTHA. 
I’ve hidden it away. 
COREY. 
Go fetch it me. 
MARTHA. 
Go find it. 
, COREY. 


No. Ill ride down to the village 

Bare-back; and when the people 
Stare and Say, 

*Giles Corey, where’s your sad- 
dle?’ I will answer, 

‘A Witch has stolen it.’ 
shall you like that? 


How 
IIo 
MARTHA, 
i shall not like it. 


COREY. 


Then go fetch the saddle. 
[Zxit MARTHA, 


If an old man will marry a young 
wife, 

Why then — why then— why then 
—he must spell Baker! 


Enter MARTHA with the saddle, 
which she throws down. 


MARTHA. 
There ’s the saddle. 


COREY. 
Take it up. 


There! 


MARTHA. 
I won't! 


COREY. 

Then let it lie there. 
the village, 

And say you are a Witch. 


I'll ride to 


MARTHA. 
No, not that, Giles. 


She takes up the saddle. 


COREY. 


Now come with me, and saddle 
the gray mare 

With your own hands; and you 
shall see me ride 

Along the village road as is be- 
coming 11g 

Giles Corey of the Salem Farms, 
your husband! [Exeunt. 


SCENE IJ.— The Green in front 
of the Meeting-house in Salem 
Village. People coming and go- 
ing. Enter GILES COREY. 


COREY. 


A melancholy end! 
have thought 

That Bridget Bishop e’er would 
come to this? 

Accused, convicted, 
demned to death 

For Witcheraft! And so good a 
woman too! 


Who would 


and con- 


662 





_ A FARMER. 
Good morrow, neighbor Corey. 


COREY (not hearing him). 
Who is safe? 
How do I know but under my own 
roof 
I too may harbor Witches, and 
some Devil 
Be plotting and contriving against 
me? 


FARMER. 


He does not hear. Good morrow, 
neighbor Corey! 


COREY. 
Good morrow. 


FARMER. 
Have you seen John Proctor late- 
ly? 130 
COREY. 


No, I have not. 


FARMER. 
Then do not see him, Corey. , 


COREY. 
Why should I not? 


FARMER. 
Because he’s angry with you. 


So keep out of his way. Avoid a 
quarrel. 
COREY. 
Why does he seek to fix a quarrel 
on me? 
FARMER, 


He says you burned his house. 


COREY. 


I burn his house? 
If he says that, John Proctor is a 
liar ! 
The night his house was burned I 
was in bed, 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 


| 


And I can prove it! 
old friends! 
He could not say that of me. 


Why, we are 


FARMER. 


He did say it. 
I heard him say it. 


COREY. 
Then he shall unsay it. 


FARMER. 


He said you did it out of spite to 
him TAI 

For taking part against you in the 
quarrel 

You had with your John Gloyd 
about his wages. 

He says you murdered Gcodell; 
that you trampled 

Upon his body till he breathed no 


more. 
And so beware of him; that’s my 
advice! [Hait. 


COREY. 


| By Heaven! thisistoo much! Ill 


seek him out, 
And make him eat his words, or 
strangle him. 


‘Ill not be slandered at a time 


like this, 
When every word is made an ac- 


cusation, 150 
When every whisper kills, and 
every man 
Walks with a halter round his 
neck ! 
Enter GLOYD in haste. 
What now? 
GLOYD. 
I came to look for you. The ecat- 
tle — 
COREY. 
Well, 
What of them? Have you found 
them ? ; 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


663 





GLOYD. 
They are dead. 
I followed them through the 
woods, across the meadows ; 
Then they all leaped into the Ip- 
swich River, 
And swam across, but could not 
climb the bank, 
And so were drowned. 


COREY. 

You are to blame for this ; 

For you took down the bars, and 
let them loose. 


GLOYD. 


That I deny. They broke the 
fences down. 160 
You know they were bewitched. 


COREY. 


Ah, my poor cattle! 
The Evil Eye was on them; that 


is true. 

Day of disaster! Most unlucky 
day! 

Why did I leave my ploughing and 
my reaping 


To plough and reap this Sodom 
and Gomorrah ? 

Oh, I could drown myself for sheer 

vexation! [Exit. 


GLOYD. 


He’s going for his cattle. He 


won’t find them. 
By this time they have drifted out 
to sea. 


They will not break his fences any 


more, 
Though they may break his heart. 
And what care 1? [Eaxvit. 


SCENE ITII.—CorREy’s kitchen. 
A table with supper. MARTHA 
knitting. 


MARTHA. 


He's come at last. I hear him in 
the passage. 


171, 


Something has gone amiss with 
him to-day ; 

I know it by his step, and by the 
sound 

The door made as he shut it. He 
is angry. 


Enter COREY with his riding- 
whip. As he speaks he takes off 
his hat and gloves, and throws 
them down violently. 


COREY. 


I say if Satan ever entered man 
He’s in John Proctor ! 


MARTHA. 


Giles, what is the matter? 
You frighten me. 


COREY. 


I say if any man 
Can have a Devil in him, then that 
man 
Is Proctor, —is John Proctor, and 
no other! 


MARTHA, 
Why, what has he been doing? 


COREY. 


Everything ! 
What do you think I heard there 
in the village ? 181 


MARTHA. 
I’m sure I cannot guess. What 
did you hear? 
COREY. 
He says I burned his house! 


MARTHA, 
Does he say that? 


COREY. 


He says I burned his house. I 
was in bed 

And fast asleep that night; and I 
can prove it. 


664 





MARTHA. 


If he says that, I think the Father 
of Lies 
Is surely in the man. 


COREY. 
He does say that, 
And that I did it to wreak ven- 
geance on him 
For taking sides against me in the 


quarrel 
Thad with that John Gloyd about 
his wages. 190 


And God knows that I never bore 
_ him malice 
For that, as I have told him twenty 
times ! 


MARTHA. 


It is John Gloyd has stirred him 
up to this. 

I do not like that Gloyd. I think 
him crafty, 

Not to be trusted, sullen, and un- 
truthful, 

Come, have your supper. 
tired and hungry. 


You are 


COREY. 
I’m angry, and not hungry. 


MARTHA. 


Do eat something. 
You ’ll be the better for it. 


COREY (sitting down). 
I’m not hungry. 


MARTHA. 


Let not the sun go down upon your 
wrath. 


COREY. 


It has gone down upon it, and will 
rise 200 

To-morrow, and go down again 
upon it. 

They have trumped up against me 
the old story 

Of causing Goodell’s death by 
trampling on him. 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 


Sr 


MARTHA. 
Oh, that is false. I know it to be 
false. 


COREY. 

He has been dead these fourteen 
years or more. 

Why can’t they let him rest? Why 
must they drag him 

Out of his grave to give me a bad 
name? 

I did not kill him. 
died, 

As most men die, because his hour 
had come. 

I have wronged no man. Why 
should Proctor say 210 

Such things about me? I will not 
forgive him 

Till he confesses he has slandered 
me. 

Then, I’ve more trouble. 
cattle gone. 


In his bed he 


All my 


MARTHA. 
They will come back again. 


COREY. 


Not in this world. 

Did I not tell you they were over- 
looked ? 

They ran down through the woods, 
into the meadows, 

And tried to swim the river, and 
were drowned. 

It is a heavy loss. 


MARTHA. 
I’m sorry for it. 


COREY. 


All my dear oxen dead. I loved 
them, Martha, 

Next to yourself. I liked to look 
at them, 220 

And watch the breath come out of 
their wide nostrils, 

And see their patient eyes. Some- 
how I thought 

It gave me strength only to look at 
them. 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 





And how they strained their necks 
against the yoke 

If I but spoke, or touched them 
with the goad! 

They were my friends; and when 
Gloyd came and told me 

They were all drowned, I could 
have drowned myself 

From sheer vexation; and I said 
as much 

To Gloyd and others. 


MARTHA. 


Do not trust John Gloyd 
With anything you would not have 


repeated. 230 
COREY. 
As I came through the woods this 
afternoon, 


Impatient at my loss, and much 
perplexed 

With all that I had heard there in 
the village, 

The yellow leaves lit up the trees 
about me 

Like an enchanted palace, and I 
wished 

I knew enough of magic or of 
Witchcraft 

To change them into gold. Then 
suddenly 

A tree shook down some crimson 
leaves upon me, 

Like drops of blood, and in the 
path before me 

Stood Tituba the Indian, the old 
crone, 240 


MARTHA. 
Were you not frightened ? 


COREY. 


No, I do not think 
I know the meaning of that word. 
Why frightened ? 
Jam not one of those who think 
the Lord 
Is waiting till He catches them 
some day 


665 





In the back yard alone! What 
should I fear ? 

She started from the bushes by 

' the path, 

And had a basKet full of herbs and 
roots 

For some witch-broth or other, — 
the old hag! 


MARTHA, 
She has been here to-day. 


COREY. 


With hand outstretched 

She said: ‘ Giles Corey, will you 
sign the Book ?? 250 

‘Avaunt!’ I cried: * Get thee be- 
hind me, Satan!’ 

At which she laughed and left me. 
But a voice 

Was whispering in my ear contin- 
ually: 

‘Self-murder is no crime. 
life of man 

Is his, to keep it or to throw 
away!’ 


The 


MARTHA. 
°T was a temptation of the Evil 
One! 
Giles, Giles! why will you harbor 
these dark thoughts ? 


COREY (rising). 
Iam too tired to talk. Ill goto 
bed. 


MARTHA. 

First tell me something. about 
Bridget Bishop. 

How did shelook? You saw her? 


You were there ? 260 
COREY. 
Ill tell you that to-morrow, not 
to-night. 


I'll go to bed. 


MARTHA. 
First let us pray together. 


666 





COREY. 
I cannot pray to-night. 


MARTHA. 


Say the Lord’s Prayer, 
And that will comfort you. 


COREY. 
I cannot say, 
‘As we forgive those that have 
sinned against us,’ 
When I do not forgive them. 


MARTHA (kneeling on the hearth). 
God forgive you! 


COREY. 


I wili not make believe! 
to-night 

There ’s something thwarts me 
when I wish to pray, - 

And thrusts into my mind, instead 
of prayers, 

Hate and revenge, and things that 
are not prayers. 270 

Something of my old self, —my 
old, bad life, — 

And the old Adam in me, rises 


I say, 


up, 

And will not let me pray. Iam 
afraid 

The Devil hinders me. You know 
I say 


Just what I think, and nothing 
more nor less, 
And, when I pray, my heart is in 


my prayer. 

I cannot say one thing and mean 
another. 

If I can’t pray, I will not make 
believe! 


[Exit CoREY. MARTHA contin- 
wes kneeling. 


ACT III 


SCENE I. — GILES COREY'S 
kitchen. Morning. COREY and 
MARTHA sitting at the break- 
Fast-table. 


But let me hear. 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 


 ——— 


COREY (rising). 
Well,now I’ve told you all I saw 
and heard 
Of Bridget Bishop: and I must be 
gone. 


MARTHA. 
Don’t go into the village, Giles, to- 
day. 
Last night you came back tired 
and out of humor. 


COREY. 

Say, angry; say, right angry. 1 
was never 

Ina more devilish temper in my 


life. 
All things went wrong with me. 


MARTHA. 


You were much vexed; 
So don’t go to the village. 


COREY (going). 


No, I won’t. 

I won't go near it. We are going 
to mow 

The Ipswich meadows for the 

aftermath, 10 


The crop of sedge and rowens. 


MARTHA. 
Stay a moment. 


I want to tell you what I dreamed 


last night. 


Do you believe in dreams? 


COREY. 
Why, yes and no. 
When they come true, then I be 
lieve in them; 
When they come false, I don’t bee 
lieve in them. 
What did you 
dream about? 


MARTHA. 
I dreamed that you and I were 
both in prison; 
That we had fetters on our handg. 
and feet ; 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


667 





That we were taken before the 

Magistrates, 

And tried for Witchcraft, and con- 
demned to death! 20 

{ wished to pray; they would not 
let me pray; 

You tried to comfort me, and they 
forbade it. 

But the most dreadful thing in all 
my dream 

Was that they made you testify 
against me! 

And then there came a kind of 
mist between us ; 

I could not see you; and I woke 
in terror. 

I never was more thankful in my 
life 

Than when I found you sleeping 
at my side! 


COREY (with tenderness). 
It was our talk last night that 


made you dream. 
I’m sorry for it. I’) control my- 


self 30 
Another time, and keep my tem- 
per down! 


Ido not like such dreams. — Re- 
member, Martha, 

Imm going to mow the Ipswich 
River meadows; 

If Gardner comes, you'll tell him 


where to find me. [Ewit. 
MARTHA. 

So this delusion grows from bad 
to worse. 

First, a forsaken and forlorn old 
woman, 

Ragged and wretched, and without 
a friend; 

Then something higher. Now it’s 


Bridget Bishop; 
God only knows whose turn it will 


be next! 
The Magistrates are blind, the 
people mad ! 40 


it they would only seize the 
Afflicted Children, 


And put them in the Workhouse, 
where they should be, 
There ’d be an end of all this wick- 

edness. [Eait. 


ScENE II.— A street in Salem 
Village. Enter MATHER and 
HATHORNE. 


MATHER. 
Yet one thing troubles me. 


HATHORNE. 
And what is that ? 


MATHER. 


May not the Devil take the out- 
ward shape 

Of innocent personsy Are we not 
in danger, 

Perhaps, of punishing some who 
are not guilty ? 


HATHORNE. 


As I have said, we do not trust 
alone 
To spectral evidence. 


MATHER. 


And then again, 

If any shall be put to death e 
Witchcraft, 

We do but kill the body, not the 
soul. 

The Unclean Spirits that pos- 
sessed them once 

Live still, to enter into other bod- 
ies. 

What have we gained? Surely, 
there ’s nothing gained. 


HATHORNE. 


Doth not the Scripture say, ‘Thou 
shalt not suffer 
A Witch to live?’ 


MATHER, 


The Scripture sayeth it, 
But speaketh to the Jews; and 
we are Christians. 
What say the laws of England ? 





HATHORNE. 
They make Witchcraft 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





MATHER. 
One of the Afflicted, 


Felony without the benefit of | I know, bore witness to the ap- 


Clergy. 
Witches are burned in England. 
You have read — 60 


For you read all things, not a book 
escapes you — 

The famous Demonology of King 
James? 


MATHER. 

A curious volume. I remember 
also 

The plot of the Two Hundred, 
with one Fian, 

The Registrar of the Devil, at their 
head, 

To drown his Majesty on his re- 
turn 

From Denmark ; how they sailed 
in sieves or riddles 

Unto North Berwick Kirk in Lo- 
thian, 

And, landing there, danced hand 
in hand, and sang, 

*‘Goodwife, go ye before! good- 


wife, go ye! 70 
If ye ll not go before, goodwife, 
let me!’ 


While Geilis Duncan played the 
Witches’ Reel 
Upon a jews-harp. 


HATHORNE. 


Then you know full well 
The English law, and that in Eng- 
land Witches, 
When lawfully convicted and at- 
tainted, 
Are put to death. 


MATHER. 


When lawfully convicted ; 
That is the point. 


HATHORNE. 


You heard the evidence 

Produced before us yesterday at 
the trial 

Of Bridget Bishop. 


parition 80 
Of ghosts unto the spectre of this 
Bishop, 


Saying, ‘ You murdered us!’ of the 
truth whereof 

There was in matter of fact too 
much suspicion. 


HATHORNE. 

And when she cast her eyes on the 
Afflicted, 

They were struck down; 
in such a manner 

There could be no collusion in the 
business. 

And when the accused but laid 
her hand upon them, 

As they lay in their swoons, they 
straight revived, 

Although they stirred not when 
the others touched them. 


and this 


MATHER. 


What most convinced me of the 
woman’s guilt go 

Was finding hidden in her cellar 
wall 

Those poppets made of rags, with 
headless pins 

Stuck into them point outwards, 
and whereof 

She could not give a reasonable 
account. 


HATHORNE. 


When you shall read the testi- 
mony given 

Before the Court in all the other 
cases, 

Iam persuaded you will find the 
proof 

No less conclusive than it was in 
this. 

Come, then, with me, and I will 
tax your patience 

With reading of the documents so 
far 100 


. 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


669 





As may convince you that these | Has been without reproach until 


sorcerers 

Are lawfully convicted and at- 
tainted. 

Like doubting Thomas, you shall 
lay your hand 

Upon these wounds, and you will 
doubt no more. [Haeunt. 


SCENE III.— A room in COREY’S 
house. MARTHA and two Dea- 
cons of the church. 


MARTHA. 


Be seated. I am glad to see you 
here. 

I know what.you are come for. 
You are come 

To question me, and learn from 
my own lips 

If I have any dealings with the 
Devil; 

In short, if I’m a Witch. 


DEACON (sitting down). 


Such is our purpose. 
How could you know beforehand 
why we came? 110 


MARTHA. 
’T was only a surmise. 


DEACON. 


We came to ask you, 
You being with us in church cove- 
nant, 
What part you have, if any, in 
these matters, 


MARTHA. 


And I make answer, No part what- 
soever. 

I am a farmer’s wife, a working 
woman ; 

You see my spinning-wheel, you 
see my loom, 

You know the duties of a farmer’s 
wife, 

And are not ignorant that my life 
among you 


this day. 
Is it not true? 


DEACON. 


So much we ’re bound to own; 
And say it frankly, and without 
reserve. I2I 


MARTHA. 


I ’ve heard the idle tales that are 
abroad ; 

I ve heard it whispered that I am 
a Witch; 

I cannot help it. 

In any Witcheraft. 
sion. 


I do not believe 
It is a delu- 


DEACON. 


How can you say that it is a delu- 
sion, 

When all our learned and good 

men believe it? — 

Ministers and worshipful 

Magistrates ? 


Our 


MARTHA, 


Their eyes are blinded, and see 
not the truth. 
Perhaps one day they will be open 


to it. 130 
DEACON. 
You answer boldly. The Afflicted 
Children 


Say you appeared to them. 


MARTHA. 


And did they say 
What clothes I came in? 


DEACON. 
No, they could not tell. 
They said that you foresaw our 
visit here, 
And blinded them, so that they 
could not see 
The clothes you wore. 


* MARTHA. 
The cunning, crafty girls: 


670 





I say to you, in all sincerity, 

I never have appeared to any 
one 

In my own person. If the Devil 
takes 

My shape to hurt these children, 
or afflict them, 

I am not guilty of it. 
say 

It ’s all a mere delusion of the 
senses. 


140 
And I 


DEACON. 


I greatly fear that you will find 
too late 
It is not so. 


MARTHA (rising). 
They do accuse me falsely. 
It is delusion, or it is deceit. 
There is a story in the ancient 
Seriptures 
Which much I wonder comes not 
to your minds. 
Let me repeat it to you. 


DEACON. 
We will hear it. 


MARTHA. 


It came to pass that Naboth had a 
vineyard 

Hard by the palace of the King 
called Ahab. 150 

And Ahab, King of Israel, spake 


to Naboth, 

And said to him, Give unto me thy 
vineyard, 

That I may have it for a garden of 
herbs, 

And I will give a better vineyard 
for it, 

Or, if it seemeth good to thee, its 
worth 

In money. Andthen Naboth said 
to Ahab, 

The Lord forbid it me that I should 
give 

The inheritance of my fathers unto 
thee. 


And Ahab came into his house dis- 
pleased 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





= 


And heavy at the words which 
Naboth spake, 160 

And laid him down upon his bed, 
and turned 

His face away; and he would eat 
no bread. 

And Jezebel, the wife of Ahab, 
came 

And said to him, Why is thy spirit 
sad? 

And he said unto her, Because I 
spake 

To Naboth, to the Jezreelite, and 
said, 

Give me thy vineyard; and he an- 
swered, saying, 

I will not give my vineyard unto 


thee. 

And Jezebel, the wife of Ahab, 
said, 

Dost thou not rule the realm of 
Israel? 170 

Arise, eat bread, and let thy heart 
be merry; 

I will give Naboth’s vineyard unto 
thee. 

So she wrote letters in King 


Ahab’s name, 

And sealed them with his seal, 
and sent the letters 

Unto the elders that were in his 
city 

Dwelling with Naboth, and unto 
the nobles; 

And in the letters wrote, Proclaim 
a fast; 

And set this Naboth high among 
the people, 

And set two men, the sons of 
Belial, 

Before him, to bear witness and 

to say, 180 

didst blaspheme against 

God and the King; 

And earry him out and stone him, 
that he die! 

And the elders and the nobles in 
the city 

Did even as Jezebel, the wife of 
Ahab, 

Had sent to them and written in 
the letters. 


Thou 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


671 





And then it came to pass, when 
Ahab heard 
Naboth was dead, that Ahab rose 


to go 

Down unto Naboth’s vineyard, ane 
to take 

Possession of it. And the word of 
God 

Came to Elijah, saying to him, 
Arise, 190 

Go down to meet the King of 
Israel 


In Naboth’s vineyard, whither he 
hath gone 

To take possession. Thou shalt 
speak to him, 

Saying, Thus saith the Lord! 
What! hast thou killed 

And also taken possession? In 
the place 

Wherein the dogs have licked the 
blood of Naboth 

Shall the dogs lick thy blood, —ay, 
even thine! 

Both of the Deacons start from 

their seats. 

And Ahab then, the King of Israel, 

Said, Hast thou found me, O mine 
enemy ? 

Elijah the Prophet answe~ed, I 
have found thee! 200 

So will it be with those who have 
stirred up 

The Sons of Belial here to bear 
false witness 

And swear away the lives of in- 
nocent people ; 

Their enemy will find them out at 
last, 

’ The Prophet’s voice will thunder, 

I have found thee! [Haeunt. 


SCENE IV.— Meadows on Ip- 
swich River. COREY and his 
men mowing; COREY in ad- 
vance. 


COREY. 


Well done, my men. You see, I 
lead the field ! 


I’m an old man, but I can swing 
a scythe 
Better than most of you, though 
you be younger. 
Hangs his scythe upon a tree. 


GLOYD (aside to the others). 


How strong he is! It’s super- 
natural. 

No man so old as he is has such 
strength. 210 


The Devil helps him! 


COREY (wiping his forehead). 
Now we’ll rest awhile, 

And take our nooning. What’s 
the matter with you? 

You are not angry with me, — are 
you, Gloyd? 

Come, come, we will not quarrel. 
Let’s be friends. 

It’s an old story, that the Raven 
said, 

‘Read the Third of Colossians and 
fifteenth.’ 


GLOYD. 


You're handier at the scythe, but 
I can beat you 
At wrestling. 


COREY. 


Well, perhaps so. 

I never wrestled with you. 
you’re vexed! 

Come, come, don’t bear a grudge. 


IT don’t know. 
Why, 


GLOYD. 
You are afraid 


COREY. 


What should I be afraid of? All 
bear witness 225 

The challenge comes from him 
Now, then, my man. 


They wrestle, and GLOYD is 
thrown. 


ONE OF THE MEN. 
That ’s a fair fall. 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





ANOTHER. 
’°T was nothing but a foil! 


OTHERS. 
You ’ve hurt him! 


COREY (helping GLOYD rise). 


No; this meadow-land is soft. 
You ’re not hurt, — are you, Gloyd? 


GLOYD (rising). 
No, not much hurt. 


COREY. 
then, shake hands; and 
there ’s an end of it. 
How do you like that Cornish hug; 
my lad? 
And now we’ll see what’s in our 
basket here. 


Well, 


GLOYD (aside). 
The Devil and all his imps are in 
that man! 
The clutch of his ten fingers burns 
like fire! 230 


COREY (reverentially taking off 
his hat). 

God bless the food He hath pro- 
vided for us, 

And make us thankful for it, for 
Christ’s sake! 

He lifts up a keg of cider, and 

drinks from it. 


GLOYD. 


Do you see that? Don’t tell me 

it’s not Witchcraft. 

Two of us could not lift that cask 

as he does! 

COREY puts down the keg, and 
opens a basket. A voice is heard 
calling. 

VOICE. 

Ho! Corey, Corey! 


COREY. 
What is that? I surely 
Heard some one calling me by 
name! 


VOICE. 
Giles Corey}! 
Enter a boy, running, and out of 
breath. 
BOY. 
Is Master Corey here ? 


COREY. 
Yes, here I am. 


BOY. 
O Master Corey ! 


COREY. 
Well? 


BOY: 
Your wife — your wife — 


COREY. 
What ’s happened to my wife ? 
BOY. 
She’s sent to prison! 


COREY. 
The dream! the dream! O God, 
be merciful! 240 


BOY. 
She sent me here to tell you. 


COREY (putting on his jacket). 


Where’s my horse ? 
Don’t stand there staring, fellows. 
Where ’s my horse? 
[Haxit COREY, 


GLOYD. 


Under the trees there. Run, old 
man, run, run! 

You’ve got some one, te wrestle 
with you now 

Who'll trip your heels up, with 
your Cornish hug. 

If there ’s a Devil, he has got you 
now. 

Ah, there he goes! 
snorting fire! 


His horse is 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


673 





ONE OF THE MEN, 
John Gloyd, don’t talk so! 
a shame to talk so! 
He’s a good master, though you 
quarrel with him. 


It’s 


GLOYD. 
If hard work and low wages make 
good masters, 250 
Then heis one. But I think other- 
wise. 
Come, let us have our dinner and 
be merry, 
And talk about the old man and 
the Witches. 
I know some stories that will 
make you laugh. 
They sit down on the grass, and 
eat. 
Now there are Goody Cloyse and 
Goody Good, 
Who have not got a decent tooth 
between them, 
And yet these children— the Af- 
flicted Children — 
Say that they bite them, and show 
marks of teeth 
Upon their arms! 


ONE OF THE MEN. 


That makes the wonder greater. 

That’s Witchcraft. Why, if they 

had teeth like yours, 260 

’T would be no wonder if the girls 
were bitten! 


GLOYD. 
And then those ghosts that come 
out of their graves 
And ery,‘ You murdered us! you 
murdered us!’ 


ONE OF 
And all those 
stick pins 
Into the flesh 
Children ! 


THE MEN. 
Apparitions that 


of the Afflicted 


GLOYD. 


Oh those Afflicted Children! They 
know well 


Where the pins come from. I can 
tell you that. 

And there’s old Corey, he has got 
a horse-shoe- 

Nailed on his doorstep to keep off 
the Witches, | 

And all the same his wife has gone 
to prison. 270 


ONE OF THE MEN. 


Oh, she’s no Witch. I’ll swear 
that Goodwife Corey 

Never did harm to any liviug 
creature. 

She ’s a good woman, if there ever 
was one. 


GLOYD. 

Well, we shall see. 
Bridget Bishop, 

She has been tried before; some 
years ago 

A negro testified he saw her skape 

Sitting upon the rafters in a 
barn, 

And holding in its hand an egg; 
and while 

He went to, fetch his pitchfork, she 
had vanished. 

And now be quiet, will you? Tam 
tired, 280 

And want to sleep here cn the 
grass a little. 


As for wtrat 


They stretch themselves on the 
grass. 


ONE OF THE MEN. 


There may be Witches riding 
through the air 

Over our heads on broomsticks at 
this moment, 

Bound for some Satan’s Sabbath 
in the woods 

To be baptized. 


GLOYD. 
I wish they ’d take you with them, 
And hold you under water, head 
and ears, 


574 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





Till you were drowned; and that | Inthe Three County Troop. He'll 


would stop your talking, 
If nothing else will. Let me sleep, 
I say. 


ACT IV 


ScENE I. — The Green in front of 
the village Meeting-house. An 
excited crowd gathering. Enter 
JOHN GLOYD. 


A FARMER. 
Who will be tried to-day? 


A SECOND. 


. I do not know. 
Here is John Gloyd. Ask him; he 
knows. 


FARMER. 


John Gloyd, 
Whose turn is it to-day? 


GLOYD. 
It’s Goodwife Corey’s. 


FARMER. 
Giles Corey’s wife? 


GLOYD. 


The same. She is not mine. 
It will go hard with her with all 
her praying. 
The hypocrite! She’s always on 
her knees ; 
But she prays to the Devil when 
she prays. 
Let us go in. 
A trumpet blows. 


FARMER. 
Here come the Magistrates. 


SECOND FARMER. 
Who’s the tall man in front? 


GLOYD. 
Oh, that is Hathorne, 


A Justice of the Court, and Quar- 


termaster 10 


sift the matter. 

That’s Corwin with him; and the 
man in black 

Is Cotton Mather, Minister of Bos. 
ton. 


Enter HATHORNE and other 
Magistrates on horseback, fol. 
lowed by the Sheriff, constables, 
and attendants on foot. The 
Magistrates dismount, and en- 
ter the Meeting-house, with the 
rest. 


FARMER. 


The Meeting-house is full. I never 
saw 
So great a crowd before. 


GLOYD. 
No matter. Come, 
We shall find room enough by 
elbowing 
Our way among them. Put your 
shoulder to it. . 
FARMER. 
There were not half so many at 
the trial 


Of Goodwife Bishop. 


GLOYD. 


Keep close after me. 

I'll find a place for you. They’ll 
want me there. 20 

I am a friend of Corey’s, as you 


know, 
And he can’t do without me just at 
present. [Exeunt. 


SCENE II.— Interior of the Meet- 
ing-house. MATHER and the 
Magistrates seated in front of 
the pulpit. Beforethem a raised 
platform. MARTHA in chains. 
COREY near her. MARY WAL- 
coT in a chair. A crowd of 
spectators, among them GLOYD. 
Confusion and murmurs during 
the scene. 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 





HATHORNE. 
Call Martha Corey. 


MARTHA. 
I am here. 


HATHORNE. 


Come forward. 
She ascends the platform. 

The Jurors of our Sovereign Lord 
and Lady 

The King and Queen, here present, 
do accuse you 

Of having on the tenth of June last 
past, 

And divers other times before and 
after, 

Wickedly used and practised cer- 
tain arts 

Called Witchcrafts, Sorceries, and 
Incantations, 

Against one Mary Walcot, single 


woman, 30 

Of Salem Village; by which wicked 
arts 

The aforesaid Mary Walcot was 
tormented, 

Tortured, afflicted, pined, con- 


sumed, and wasted, 

Against the peace of our Sovereign 
Lord and Lady 

The King and Queen, as well as of 
the Statute 

Made and provided in that case. 
What say you? 


MARTHA. 
Before I answer, give me leave to 
pray. 


HATHORNE. 


We have not sent for you, nor are 
we here, 

To hear you pray, but to examine 
you 

In whatsoever is alleged against 
you. 40 

Why do you hurt this person? 


MARTHA, 
I do not. 


675 
I am not guilty of the charge 
against me. 
MARY. 


Avoid, she-devil! You may tor- 
ment me now! 
Avoid, avoid, Witch! 


MARTHA. 


I am innocent. 
I never had to do with any Witch- 
craft 
Since I was born. I ama gospel 
woman. 


MARY. 
You are a gospel Witch! 


MARTHA (clasping her hands). 


Ah me! ah me! 
Oh, give me leave to pray! 


MARY (stretching out her hands). 


She hurts me now. 
See, she has pinched my hands! 


HATHORNE. 


Who made these marks 
Upon her hands? 


MARTHA. 


I do not know. I stand 
Apart from her. I did not touch 
her hands. 5) 


HATHORNE, 
Who hurt her then? 


MARTHA, 
I know not. 


HATHORNE. 


Do you think 
She is bewitched ? 


MARTHA, 
Indeed I do not think so. 
Iam no Witch, and have no faith 
in Witches. 


676 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





HATHORNE. 
Then answer me: When certain 
persons came 
To see you yesterday, how did you 
know 
Beforehand why they came? 


MARTHA. 
I had had speech ; 
The children said I hurt them, and 
I thought 
These people came to question me 


about it. 
HATHORNE. 
How did you know the children 
had been told 60 


To note the clothes you wore? 


MARTHA. 


My husband told me 
What others said about it. 


HATHORNE. 


Goodman Corey, 
Say, did you tell her? 


COREY. 


I must speak the truth; 
I did not tell her. It was some 
one else, 


HATHORNE. 


Did you not say your husband told 
you so? 

How dare you tell a lie in this as- 
sembly ? 

Who told you of the clothes? Con- 
fess the truth. 


MARTHA bites her lips, and is si- 


lent. 
You bite your lips, but do not an- 
swer me! 
MARY. 
Ah, she is biting me! Avoid, 
avoid! 69 
HATHORNE. 


You said your husband told you. 


MARTHA, 


Yes, he told me 
The children said I troubled them. 


HATHORNE. 


Then tell me, 
Why do you trouble them? 


MARTHA, 
I have denied it. 


MARY. 


She threatened me; stabbed at me 
with her spindle ; 

And, when my brother thrust her 
with his sword, 

He tore her gown, and cut a piece 
away. 

Here are they both, the spindle 
and the cloth. 


Shows them. 


HATHORNE. 


And there are persons here who 
know the truth 

Of what has now been said. What 
answer make you? 


MARTHA. 
I make no answer. Give me leave 
to pray. i 79 
HATHORNE. 


Whom would you pray to? 


MARTHA. 
To my God and Father. 


HATHORNE. 
Who is your God and Father ? 


MARTHA. 
The Almighty! 


HATHORNE. 
Doth he you pray to say that he is 
God? 
It is the Prince of Darkness, and 
not God. 


THE NEW. ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


677 





MARY. © 


There is a dark shape whispering 


in her ear. 


HATHORNE. 
What does it say to you? 


MARTHA, 
I see no shape. 


HATHORNE. 
Did you not hear it whisper? 


MARTHA, 
I heard nothing. 


MARY. 
What torture! Ah, what agony I 
suffer! 
Falls into a swoon. 
HATHORNE. 


You see this woman cannot stand 
before you. 

If you would look for mercy, you 
must look 

In God’s way, by confession of 
your guilt. go 

Why does your spectre haunt and 
hurt this person ? 


MARTHA. 
I do not know. He who appeared 
_. of old 
In Samuel’s shape, a saint and 
glorified, 
May come in whatsoever shape he 
chooses, 
I cannot help it. I am sick at 
heart! 
COREY. 


O Martha, Martha! let me hold 
your hand. 
HATHORNE, 
No: heh aside, old man. 


MARY (starting up). 


Look there! Wook there ! 
I see a little bird, a yellow bird, 


Perched on her finger; 
pecks at me. 
Ah! it will tear mine eyes out! 


and it 


MARTHA. 
I see nothing. 


HATHORNE. 


’Tis the Familiar Spirit that at- 
tends her. IOI 


MARY. 
Now it has flown away. It sits up 
there 
Upon the rafters. It is gone; is 
vanished. 
MARTHA, 


Giles, wipe these tears of anger 
from mine eyes. 
Wipe the sweat from my forehead. 
I am faint. 
She leans against the railing. 


MARY. 
Oh, she is crushing me with all her 
weight! 


HATHORNE. 


Did you not carry once the Devil's 
Book 
To this young woman? 


MARTHA. 
Never. 


HATHORNE. 
Have you signed it, 
Or touched it ? 


MARTHA. 
No; i never saw it. 


HATHORNE, 


Did you not scourge her with an 
iron rod? T1q 


MARTHA. 
No, I did not. If any Evil Spirit 
Has taken my shape to do these 
evil deeds, 


I cannot help it. I am innocent. 


678 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





HATHORNE. 
Did you not say the Magistrates 
were blind ? 
That you would open their eyes ? 


MARTHA (with a scornful laugh). 


Yes, I said that: 
If you call me a Sorceress, you are 
blind ! 
If you accuse the innocent, you 
are blind! 
Can the innocent be guilty ? 


HATHORNE. 
Did you not 
On one occasion hide your hus- 
band’s saddle 
To hinder him from coming to the 


Sessions ? 120 
MARTHA. 
I thought it was a folly in a farm- 
er 
To waste his time pursuing such 
illusions. 
HATHORNE. 


What was the bird that this young 
woman saw 
Just now upon your hand? 


MARTHA. 
I know no bird. 


HATHORNE. 
Have you not dealt with a Familiar 
Spirit ? 
MARTHA. 
No, never, never! 


HATHORNE. 
What then was the Book 
You showed to this young woman, 
and besought her 
To write in it? 


MARTHA. 
Where should I have a book? 
J showed her none, nor have 
none. 


MARY. 
The next Sabbath 
Is the Communion Day, but Mar- 
tha Corey 13a 
Will not be there! 


MARTHA. 
Ah, you are all against me. 
What can I do or say? 


HATHORNE. 
You can confess, 


MARTHA. 
No, I cannot, for I am innocent. 


HATHORNE. 


We have the proof of many wit: 
nesses 
That you are guilty. 


MARTHA. 


Give me leave to speak. 

Will you condemn me on such 
evidence, — 

You who have known me for so 
many years? 

Will you condemn me in this house 
of God, 

Where I so long have worshipped 
with you all? 

Where I have eaten the bread 
and drunk the wine 140 

Somany times at our Lord’s Table 
with you? 

Bear witness, you that hear me; 
you all know 

That I have led a blameless life 
among you, 

That never any whisper of suspi.- 
cion 

Was breathed against me till this 
accusation. 

And shall this count for nothing ? 
Will you take 

My life away from me, because 
this girl, 

Who is distraught, and not in her 
right mind, 

Accuses me of things I blush te 
name? 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


679 


Le ——————————————————————E——————————————————E—————EE— eee 


HATHORNE. 


What ! is it not enough? Would 
you hear more? 150 
Giles Corey! 


COREY. 
Tam here. . 


HATHORNE. 
Come forward, then. 
COREY ascends the platform. 


Is it not true, that on a certain 
night 

You were impeded strangely in 
your prayers ? 

That something hindered you? 
and that you left 

This woman here, your wife, kneel- 
ing alone 

Upon the hearth? 


COREY. 
Yes; I cannot deny it. 


HATHORNE. 


Did you not say the Devil hin- 
dered you? 


COREY. 


I think I said some words to that 
effect. 


HATHORNE. 
Is it not true, that fourteen head 
of cattle, 
To you belonging, broke from their 
enclosure 160 
And leaped into the river, and 
were drowned? 


COREY. 
It is most true. 


HATHORNE. 


And did you not then say 
That they were overlooked ? 


COREY. 

So much I said. 

I see; they ’re drawing round me 
closer, closer, 


A net I cannot break, cannot es: 
cape from! ( Aside.) 
HATHORNE. 
Who did these things ? 


COREY. 
I do not know who did them. 


HATHORNE. 


Then I will tell you. 
one near you; 

You see her now; this woman,’ 
your own wife. 


It is some 


COREY. 

I call the heavens to witness, it is 
false! 

She never harmed me, never hin- 
dered me 170 

In anything but what I should not 
do. 

And I bear witness in the sight of 
heaven, 


And in God’s house here, that I 
never knew her 

As otherwise than patient, brave, 
and true, 

Faithful, forgiving, full of charity, 

A virtuous and industrious and 
good wite! 


HATHORNE., 


Tut, tut, man; do not rant so in 
your speech; 

You are a witness, not an advo- 
cate! 

Here, Sheriff, take this woman 
back to prison. 


MARTHA, 
O Giles, this day you’ve sworn 
away my life! 180 
MARY. 
Go, go and join the Witches at the 


door. 

Do you not hear the drum? Do 
you not see them ? 

Go quick. They’re waiting for 
you. You are late. 

[Huit MARTHA; COREY following. 





680 CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 
COREY. He threw me like a feather. I 
The dream! the dream! the have seen him 
dream! Lift up a barrel with his single 
hands, 
HATHORNE. Which two strong men could 


What does he say ? 
Giles Corey, go not hence. You 
are yourself 
Accused of Witchcraft and of 
Sorcery 
By many witnesses. 
guilty? 


Say, are you 


COREY. 


I know my death is foreordained 
by you, — 
Mine and my wife’s. 
will not answer. 
During the rest of the scene he re- 
mains silent. 


Therefore I 


HATHORNE. 


Do yon refuse to plead? — ’T were 
vetter for you 190 

To 1in.ke confession, or to plead 
Not Guilty. — 

Do you not hear me? — Answer, 
are you guilty ? 

Do you not know a heavier doom 
awaits you, 

If you refuse to plead, than if found 
guilty ? 

Where is John Gloyd? 


GLOYD (coming forward). 
Here am I. 


HATHORNE. 


Tell the Court; 
Have you not seen the supernatu- 
ral power 
Of this old man? Have you not 
seen him do 
Strange feats of strength? 


GLOYD. 

I’ve seen him lead the field, 

On a hot day, in mowing, and 
against ‘ 

Us younger men; and I have wres- 

tled with him. 200 


hardly lift together, 
And, holding it above his head, 
drink trom it. 


HATHORNE. 


is enough; we need not 
question further. 
What answer do you make to this, 
Giles Corey ? 


That 


MARY. 


See there! See there! 


HATHORNE. 
What is it? I see nothing. 


MARY. 
Look! Look! It is the ghost of 
Robert Goodell, 
Whom fiftéen years ago this man 
did murder 


By stamping on his body! In his 
shroud 210 

He comes here to bear witness to 
the crime! 


The crowd shrinks back from 
COREY in horror. 


HATHORNE. 


Ghosts of the dead and voices of 
the living 

Bear witness to your guilt, and 
you must die! 

It might have been an easier 
death. Your doom 

Will be on your own head, and not 
on ours. 

Twice more will you be questioned 
of these things: 

Twice more have room to plead or 
to confess. 

If you are contumacious to the 
Court, 

And if, when questioned, you re- 
fuse to answer, ‘ 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


Then by the Statute you will be 
condemned 220 

To the peine forte et dure! To 
have your body 

Pressed by great weights until you 
shall be dead! 

And may the Lord have mercy on 
your soul! 


ACT V - 
SCENE I.—COREY’s farm as in 
Act II., Scene I. Enter RicuH- 
ARD GARDNER, looking round 
him. 


GARDNER. 


Here stands the house as I remem- 
ber it, 

The four tall poplar-trees before 
the docr ; 

The house, the barn, the orchard, 
and the well, 

With its moss-covered bucket and 
its trough; 

The garden, with its hedge of cur- 
rant-bushes ; 

The woods, the harvest - fields; 
and, far beyond, 

The pleasant landscape stretching 
to the sea. 

But everything is silent and de- 
serted! 

No bleat of flocks, no bellowing of 
herds, 

No sound of flails, that should be 
beating now; 10 

Nor man nor beast astir. What can 
this mean? 

Knocks at the door. 

What ho! Giles Corey! Hillo-ho! 
Giles Corey ! — 

No answer but the echo from the 
barn, 

And the ill-omened cawing of the 
crow, 

That yonder wings his flight across 
the fields, 

As if he scented carrion in the 
air. 


681 


Enter TITUBA with a basket. 


What woman’s this, that, like an 
apparition, 

Haunts this deserted homestead 
in broad day? 

Woman, who are you? 


TITUBA. 
I’m Tituba, 
Iam John Indian’s wife. I ama 
Witch. 20 


GARDNER. 
What are you doing here? 


TITUBA. 


Iam gathering herbs, — 
Cinquefoil, and saxifrage, and pen- 
nyroyal. 


GARDNER (looking at the herbs). 


This is not cinquefoil, it is deadly 
nightshade ! 

This is not saxifrage, but helle- 
bore! 

This -is not pennyroyal, it is hen- 
bane! 

Do you come here to poison these 
good people? 


TITUBA. 


I get these for the Doctor in the 
Village. 
Beware of Tituba. 
children ; 
Make little poppets and stick pins 


I pinch the 


in them, 
And then the children cry out they 
are pricked. 30 


The Black Dog came to me, and 
said, ‘Serve me!’ 

I was afraid. He made me hurt 
the children. 


GARDNER.. 


Poor soul! She’s crazed, with all 
these Devil’s doings. 


TITUBA. 
Will you, sir, sign the Book? 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





GARDNER. 
No, I ll not sign it. 
Where is Giles Corey? Do you 
know Giles Corey ? 


TITUBA. 
He’s safe enough. He’s down 
there in the prison. 


GARDNER. 


Corey in prison?, What is he ac- 
cused of? 


TITUBA. 


Giles Corey and Martha Corey are 
in prison 

Down there in Salem Village. 
Both are Witches. 

She came to me and whispered, 
* Kill the children!’ 40 

Both signed the Book! 


GARDNER. 


Begone, you imp of darkness! 
You Devil’s dam! 


TITUBA. 


Beware of Tituba! 
[E£ait. 


GARDNER. 


How often out at sea on stormy 
nights, 

When the waves thundered round 
me, and the wind 

Bellowed, and beat the canvas, 
and my ship 

Clove through the solid darkness, 
like a wedge, 

T ve thought of him, upon his plea- 
sant farm, 

Living in quiet with his thrifty 
housewife, 

And envied him, and wished his 
fate were mine! 

And now I find him shipwrecked 
utterly, 50 

Drifting upon this sea of sorce- 
ries, 

And lost, perhaps, beyond all aid 
of man! 


[Eait. |} 


ScENE II.— The prison. GILES 
COREY at a table on which are 
some papers. 


COREY. 


Now I have done with earth and 
all its cares ; 
I give my worldly goods to my 
dear children ; 
My body I bequeath to my tor- 
- mentors, 
And my immortal soul to Him who 


made it. 

O God! who in thy wisdom dost 
afflict me 

With an affliction greater than 
most men 

Have ever yet endured or shall en- 
dure, 

Suffer me not in this last bitter 
hour — 60 

For any pains of death to fall fr om 
thee! 


MARTHA is heard singing. + 


Arise, O righteous Lord ! 
And disappoint my foes ; 

They are but thine avenging sword; 
Whose wounds are swift to close. 


COREY. 


Hark, hark! it is her voice! 
is not dead! 

She lives! I am not utterly for- 
saken! 


She 


MARTHA, singing. 


By thine abounding grace, 
And mercies multiplied, 

I shall awake, and see thy face; 70 
I shall be satisfied. 


CoREY hides his face in his hands. 
Enter the JAILER, followed by 
RICHARD GARDNER. 


JAILER. 
Here’s a seafaring man, one Rich- 
ard Gardner, 
A friend of yours, who asks ue 
speak with you. 
COREY rises. They embrace. 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


683 





COREY. 
I’m glad to see you, ay, right glad 
to see you. 


GARDNER. 


And I am most sorely grieved to 
see you thus. 


COREY. 


Of all the friends I had in happier 
days, 

You are the first, ay, and the only 
one, 

That comes to seek me out in my 
disgrace ! 

And you but come in time to say 
farewell. 

They ’ve dug my grave already in 
the field. 80 

Ithank you. There is something 
in your presence, 

I know not what it is, that gives 
me strength. 

Perhaps it is the bearing of a man 

Familiar with all dangers of the 
deep, 

Familiar with the cries of drown- 
ing men, 

With fire, and wreck, and founder- 
ing ships at sea! 


GARDNER. 


Ah, I have never known a wreck 
like yours! 
Would I could save you! 


COREY. 


Do not speak of that. 
It is too late. I am resolved to 


die. 
GARDNER. 
Why would you die who have so 
much to live for ?— go 


Your daughters, and — 


COREY. 


You cannot say the word. 
My daughters have gone from me. 
They are married; 
They have their homes, their 
thoughts, apart from me ; 


I will not say their hearts, — that 
were too cruel. 
What would you have me do? 


GARDNER. 
Confess and live. 


COREY. 


That ’s what they said who came 
here yesterday 

To lay a heavy weight upon my 
conscience 

By telling me that I was driven 
forth 

As an unworthy member of their 
church. 


GARDNER. 
It is an awful death. 


COREY. 


*T is but to drown, 
And have the weight of all the 
seas upon you. Ior 


GARDNER. 


Say something; say enough to 
fend off death 

Till this tornado of fanaticism 

Blows itself out. Let me come in 
between you 

And your severer self, with my 
plain sense; 

Do not be obstinate. 


COREY. 


I will not plead, 
If I deny, I am condemned al- 


ready, 

In courts where ghosts appear as 
witnesses, 

And swear men’s lives away. If 
I confess, 

Then I confess a lie, to buy a 
life 110 

Which is not life, but only death 
in life. 


I will not bear false witness 
against any, 

Not even against myself, whom I 
count least. 


684 


CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY 





GARDNER (aside). 
Ah, what a noble character is this! 


COREY. 
I pray you, do not urge me to do 
that 


You would not do yourself. I 


have already 

The bitter taste of death upon my 
lips; 

I feel the pressure of the heavy 
weight 

That will crush out my life within 
this hour; 

But if a word could save me, and 
that word 120 

Were not the Truth; nay, if it did 
but swerve 

A hair’s-breadth from the Truth, I 
would not say it! 


GARDNER (aside). 


How mean I seem beside a man 
like this! 


COREY. 


As for my wife, my Martha and 
my Martyr, — 

Whose virtues, like the stars, un- 
seen by day, 

Though numberless, do but await 
the dark 

To manifest themselves unto all 


eyes, — 

She who first won me from my 
evil ways, 

And taught me how to live by her 
example, 

By her example teaches me to 
die, 130 

And leads me onward to the better 
life ! 

SHERIFF (without). 
Giles Corey! Come! The hour 


has struck! 


COREY. 
I come! 
Here is my body; ye may torture 
it, 


But the immortal soul ye cannot 
crush! [Exeunt. 


SCENE III.—A street in the Vil- 
lage. Enter GLOYD and others. 


GLOYD. 
Quick, or we shall be late! 


A MAN. 


That’s not the way. 
Come here; come up this lane. 


GLOYD. 


I wonder now 
If the old man will die, and will 
not speak ? 
He’s obstinate enough and tough 
enough 
For anything on earth. 
A bell tolls. 
Hark! What is that? 


A MAN. 
The passing bell. He’s dead. 


GLOYD. 


' We are too late. 
[Exeunt in haste. 


SCENE IV.—A field near the 
graveyard. GILES COREY ly- 
ing dead, with a great stone on 
his breast. The sheriff at his 
head, RICHARD GARDNER at 
his feet. A crowd behind. The- 
bell tolling. Enter HATHORNE 
and MATHER. 


HATHORNE. 
This is the Potter’s Field. Behold 
the fate I4I 
Of those who deal in Witchcrafts, 


and, when questioned, 
Refuse to plead their guilt or inno- 
cence, 
And stubbornly drag death upon 
themselves. 


7 


' 


THE NEW ENGLAND TRAGEDIES 


685 





MATHER, 

O sight most horrible! 
like this, 

Spangled with Churches Evangeli- 
cal, 

Inwrapped in our salvations, must 
we seek 

In mouldering statute-books of 
English Courts 

Some old forgotten Law, to do such 
deeds? 

Those who lie buried in the Pot- 
ter’s Field 150 

Will rise again, as surely as our- 
selves 

That sleep in honored graves with 
epitaphs: 

And this poor man, whom we have 
made a victim, 

Hereafter will be counted as a 
martyr! 


In a land 


FINALE 
SAINT JOHN 


SAINT JOHN wandering over the 
Jace of the Earth. 


SAINT JOHN, 


THE Ages come and go, 

The Centuries pass as Years; 

My hair is white as the snow, 

My feet are weary and slow, 

The earth is wet with my tears! 

The kingdoms crumble, and fall 

Apart, like a ruined wall, 

Or a bank that is undermined 

By a river’s ceaseless flow, 

And leave no trace behind! 10 

The world itself is old; 

The portals of Time unfold 

On hinges of iron, that grate 

And groan with the rust and the 
weight, 

Like the hinges of a gate 

That hath fallen to decay; 

But the evil doth not cease; 

There is war instead of peace, 

Instead of Love there is hate ; 





And still IT must wander and wait, 
Still I must watch and pray, 21 
Not forgetting in whose sight, 

A thousand years in their flight 
Are as @ single day. 


The life of man is a gleam 

Of light, that comes and goes 

Like the course of the Holy 
Stream, 

The cityless river, that flows 

From fountains no one knows, 

Through the Lake of Galilee, 30 

Through forests and level lands, 

Over rocks, and shallows, and 
sands 

Of a wilderness wild and vast, 

Till it findeth its rest at last 

In the desolate Dead Sea! 

But alas! alas for me 

Not yet this rest shall be! 


What, then! doth Charity fail? 

Is Faith of no avail? 

Is Hope blown out like a light 40 

By a gust of wind in the night ? 

The clashing of creeds, and the 
strife 

Of the many beliefs, that in vain 

Perplex man’s heart and brain, 

Are naught but the rustle of leaves, 

When the breath of God upheaves 

The boughs of the Tree of Life, 

And they subside again! 

And I remember still 

The words, and from whom they 
came, 50 

Not he that repeateth the name, 

But he that doeth the will! 


And Him evermore I behold 

Walking in Galilee, 

Through the cornfield’s waving 
gold, 

In hamlet, in wood, and in wold, 

By the shores of the Beautiful 
Sea, 

He toucheth the sightless eyes; 

Before him the demons flee ; 

To the dead He sayeth: Arise! Go 

To the living: Follow me! 


686 


JUDAS MACCABAUS 





And that voice still soundeth on 
From the centuries that are gone, 
To the centuries that shall be! 


From all vain pomps and shows, 
From the pride that overflows, 
And the false conceits of men; 
From all the narrow rules 

And subtleties of Schools, 

And the craft of tongue and pen; 
Bewildered in its search, 71 





Bewildered with the cry: 

Lo, here! lo, there, the Church ! 
Poor, sad Humanity 

Through all the dust and heat 
Turns back with bleeding feet, 
By the weary road it came, 
Unto the simple thought 

By the great Master taught, 
And that remaineth still: 8a 
Not he that repeateth the name, 
But he that doeth the will! 


JUDAS MACCABAUS 


ACT I 


THE CITADEL OF ANTIOCHUS 
AT JERUSALEM 


SCENE I.— ANTIOCHUS; JASON. 


ANTIOCHUS. 


O ANTIOCH, my Antioch, my city! 

Queen of the East! my solace, my 
delight! 

The dowry of my sister Cleopatra 

When she was wed to Ptolemy, 
and now 

Won back and made more wonder- 
ful by me! . 

I love thee, and I long tio be once 
more 

Among the players and the dan- 
cing women 

Within thy gates, and bathe in the 
Orontes, 

Thy river and mine. 
High-Priest, 

For I have made thee so, and thou 
art mine, 10 

Hast thou seen Antioch the Beau- 
tiful ? 


O Jason, my 


JASON. 
Never, my Lord. 


ANTIOCHUS. 
Then hast thou never seen 


The wonder of the world. This 
city of David 

Compared with Antioch is but a 

village, 

its inhabitants compared 

with Greeks 

Are mannerless boors. 


And 


JASON. 
They are barbarians, 
And mannerless. 
ANTIOCHUS. 


They must be civilized. 
They must be made to have more 
gods than one ; 
And goddesses besides. 


JASON. 
They shall have more. 


ANTIOCHUS. 


They must have hippodromes, and 
games, and baths, 20 

Stage -plays and festivals, and 
most of all 

The Dionysia. 


JASON. 
They shall have them all. 


ANTIOCHUS. 


By Heracles! but I should like to 
see 


JUDAS MACCABEUS 





These Hebrews crowned with ivy, 
and arrayed 

In skins of fawns, with drums and 
flutes and thyrsi, 

Revel and riot through the solemn 
streets 

Of their old town. Ha, ha! It 
makes me merry 

Only to think of it!— Thou dost 
not laugh. 


JASON. 
Yea, I laugh inwardly. 


ANTIOCHUS. 
The new Greek leaven 


Works slowly in this Israelitish | 


dough! 30 
Have I not sacked the Temple, 
and on the altar 


Set up the statue of Olympian | 


Zeus 
To Hellenize it? 


JASON. 
Thou hast done all this. 


ANTIOCHUS. 


As thou wast Joshua once and 


now art Jason, 

And from a Hebrew hast become 
a Greek, 

So shall this Hebrew nation be 
translated, 

Their very natures and _ their 
names be changed, 

And all be Hellenized. 


JASON. 
It shall be done. 


ANTIOCHUS. 


Their manners and their laws and 
way of living 

Shall all be Greek. They shall 
unlearn their language. 40 

And learn the lovely speech of 
Antioch. 

Where hast thou been to-day? 
Thou comest late. 





687 
JASON. 
Playing at discus with the other 
priests 
In the Gymnasium, 


ANTIOCHUS, 
Thou hast done well. 
There’s nothing better for you 
lazy priests 
Than discus-playing with the com- 
mon people. 
Now tell .me, Jason, what these 
Hebrews call me 
When they converse together at 
their games. 


JASON. 


Antiochus Epiphanes, my Lord ; 
Antiochus the Illustrious, 


ANTIOCHUS, | 
Oh, not that ; 
That is the public cry; I ie 
the name 
They give me when they talk 
among themselves, 
And think that no one listens ; 
what is that? 


JASON. 
Antiochus Epimanes, my Lord! 


ANTIOCHUS. 


| Antiochus the Mad! Ay, that is it. 


And who hath said it? Who hath 
set in motion 


That sorry jest? 


JASON, 


The Seven Sons insane 
Of a weird woman, like themselves 
insane, 


ANTIOCHUS. 


I like their courage, but it shall 
not save them. 

They shall be made to eat the 
flesh of swine 60 

Or they shall die. Where are 
they v 


683 


JUDAS MACCABAUS 





JASON. 
In the dungeons 
Beneath this tower. 


ANTIOCHUS. 
There let them stay and starve, 
Till I am ready to make Greeks of 
them, 
After my fashion. 


JASON. 


They shall stay and starve. — 
My Lord, the Ambassadors of Sa- 
maria 
Await thy pleasure. 


ANTIOCHUS. 


Why not my displeasure ? 

Ambassadors are tedious. They 
are men 

Who work for their own ends, and 
not for mine ; 

There is no furtherance in them, 
Let them go 

To Apollonius, my governor 70 

There in Samaria, and not trouble 
me. 

‘What do they want? 


JASON. 


Only the royal sanction 
To give a name unto a nameless 
temple 
Upon Mount Gerizim. 


ANTIOCHUS. 


Then bid them enter. 
This pleases me, and furthers my 
designs. 


The occasion is auspicious. Bid 
them enter. 
ScENE II. — ANTIOCHUS; JA- 


SON; the SAMARITAN AMBAS- 
SADORS. 


ANTIOCHUS. 


Approach. Come forward; stand 
not at the door 


Wagging your long beards, but 


demean yourselves 


As doth become Ambassadors, 
What seek ye? 


_ AN AMBASSADOR, 
An audience from the King. 


ANTIOCHUS, 


Speak, and be brief, 

Waste not the time in useless 

rhetoric. 81 
Words are not things. 


AMBASSADOR (reading). 


‘To King Antiochus, 

The God, Epiphanes; a Memorial 

From the Sidonians, who live at 
Sichem.’ 


ANTIOCHUS. 
Sidonians ? 


AMBASSADOR. 
Ay, my Lord. 


ANTIOCHUS, 


Go on, go on! 
And do not tire thyself and me 
with bowing! 


AMBASSADOR (reading). 


‘We are a colony of Medes and 
Persians.’ 


ANTIOCHUS. 
No, ye are Jews from one of the 
Ten Tribes; 
Whether Sidonians or Samaritans 
Or Jews of Jewry, matters not to 


me; 90 
Ye are all Israelites, ye are all 
Jews. 


When the Jews prosper, ye claim 
kindred with them ; 

When the Jews suffer, ye are 
Medes and Persians ; 

I know that in the days of Alex- 
ander 

Ye claimed exemption from the 
annual tribute 

In the Sabbatic Year, because, ye 
said, 


JUDAS MACCABAUS 





Your fields had not been planted 
in that year. 


AMBASSADOR (reading). 


‘Our fathers, upon certain frequent 
plagues, 

And following an ancient supersti- 
tion, 

Were long accustomed to observe 
that day 100 

Which by the Israelites is called 
the Sabbath, 

And in a temple on Mount Geri- 
zim 

Without a name, they offered sac- 
rifice. 

Now we, who are Sidonians, be- 
seech thee, 

Who art our benefactor and our 
savior, 

Not to confound us with these 
wicked Jews, 

But to give royal order and injunc- 
tion 

To Apollonius in Samaria, 

Thy governor, and likewise to 
Nicanor, 

Thy procurator, no more to molest 
us; IIo 

And let our nameless temple now 
be named 

The Temple of Jupiter Hellenius.° 


ANTIOCHUS. 


This shall be done. Full well it 
pleaseth me 

Ye are not Jews, or are no longer 
Jews, 

But Greeks; if not by birth, yet 

_ Greeks by custom. 

Your nameless temple shall re- 
ceive the name 

Of Jupiter Hellenius. Ye may go! 


BcENE III.— ANTIOCHUS; JA- 
SON. 
ANTIOCHUS., 


My task is easier than I dreamed. 
These people 


689 


————- 


Meet me half-way. Jason, didst 
thou take note 

How these Samaritans of Sichem 
said 120 

They were not Jews? that they 
were Medes and Persians, 

They were Sidonians, anything 
but Jews? 

’T is of good augury. The rest 
will follow 

Till the whole land is Hellenized. 


JASON. 
My Lord, 
These are Samaritans. The tribe 
of Judah 
Is of a different temper, and the 
task 


Will be more difficult. 


ANTIOCHUS. 
Dost thou gainsay me? 


JASON. 


I know the stubborn nature of the 
Jew. 

Yesterday, Eleazer, an old man, 

Being fourscore years and ten, 
chose rather death 130 

By torture than to eat the flesh of 
swine. 


ANTIOCHUS. 


The life is in the blood, and the 
whole nation 

Shall bleed to death, or it shall 
change its faith! 


JASON. 


Hundreds have fled already to the 
mountains 

Of Ephraim, where Judas Macea- 
beeus 

Hath raised the standard of revolt 
against thee. 


ANTIOCHUS. 


I will burn down their city, and 
will make it 
Waste as a wilderness. 

oughfares 


Its thor 


690 





JUDAS MACCABAUS 





Shall be but furrows in a field of | Who formed the generation of 
ashes. mankind, 

It shall be sown with salt as So- | And found out the beginning of alk 
dom is? 140 things, 

This hundred and fifty-third Olym- | He gave you breath and life, and 
piad will again 


Shall have a broad and blood-red 
seal upon it, 

Stamped with the awful letters of 
my name, 

Antiochus the God, Epiphanes ! — 

Where are those Seven Sons? 


JASON. 
My Lord, they wait 
Thy royal pleasure. 


ANTIOCHUS. 
They shall wait no longer! 


ACT II 
THE DUNGEONS IN THE CITA- 
DEL 


ScENE L—THE MOTHER of the 
SEVEN SONS alone, listening. 


THE MOTHER. 


Be strong, my heart! Break not 
till they are dead. 

All, all my Seven Sons ; then burst 
asunder, 

And let. this tortured and _ tor- 
mented soul 

Leap and rush out like water 
through the shards 

Of earthen vessels broken at a 
well. 

O my dear children, mine in life 
and death, 

I know not how ye came into my 
womb; 

I neither gave you breath, nor 
gave you life, 

And neither was it I that formed 
the members 

Of every one of you. But the 
Creator, 10 

Who made the world, and made 
the heavens above us, 


Of his own mercy, as ye now regard 

Not your own selves, but his eter- 
nal law. 

I do not murmur, nay, I thank 
thee, God, 

That I and mine have not been 
deemed unworthy 

To suffer for thy sake, and for thy 
law, 

And for the many sins of Israel. 2¢ 

Hark! I can hear within the sound 
of scourges! 

I feel them more than ye do, O my 
sons! 


| But cannot come to you. I, who 


was wont 
To wake at night at the least cry 
ye made, 
To whom ye ran at every slightest 
hurt, — 
I cannot take you now into my lap 
And soothe your pain, but God 
will take you all 
Into his pitying arms, and comfort 
you, 
And give you rest. 
A VOICE (within). 
What wouldst thou ask of us? 
Ready are we to die, but we will 
never 30 


Transgress the law and customs 
of our fathers. 


THE MOTHER. 
It is the voice of my first-born! 


O brave 

And noble boy! Thou hast the 
privilege 

Of dying first, as thou wast born 
the first. 


THE SAME VOICE (within). 


God looketh on us, and hath com 
fort in us; 


JUDAS MACCABAUS 


6a! 


o 





= i 

As Moses iu his song of old de-| Held out to thee, O King Ant). 
clared, ochus, 

He in his servants shall be com-| Not to implore thy mercy, but to 
forted. show 


THE MOTHER. 


T knew thou wouldst not fail!— 
He speaks no more, 
He is beyond all pain! 


ANTIOCHUS (within). 


If thou eat not 
Thou shalt be tortured throughout 


all the members 40 
Of thy whole body. Wilt thou eat 
then? 


SECOND VOICE (within). 
No. 


THE MOTHER. 


It is Adaiah’s voice. I tremble 
for him. 

I know his nature, devious as the 
wind, 

And swift to change, gentle and 
yielding always. 

Be steadfast, O my son! 


THE SAME VOICE (within). 


Thou, like a fury, 
Takest us from this present life, 
but God, 
Who rules the world, shall raise us 
up again 
Into life everlasting. 


THE MOTHER. 


God, I thank thee 

That thou hast breathed into that 
timid heart 

Courage to die for thee. O my 
Adaiah, 50 

Witness of God! if thou for whom 
I feared 

Canst thus encounter death, I need 
not fear; 

The others will not shrink. 


THIRD VOICE (within). 


Behold these hands |: 


That I despise them. He who 
gave them to me 
Will give them back again. 


THE MOTHER. 


O Avilan, 


It is thy voice. For the last time 


I hear it; 

For the last time on earth, but not 
the last. 

To death it bids defiance, and to 
torture. 60 

It sounds to me as from another 
world, 

And makes the petty miseries of 
this 


Seem unto me as naught, and less 
than naught. 
Farewell, my Avilan; nay, I should 


say 

Welcome, my Avilan; for I am 
dead 

Before thee. I am waiting for the 
others. 


Why do they linger? 


FOURTH VOICE (within). 


It is good, O King, 
Being put to death by men, to look 
for hope 
From God, to be raised up again 
by Him. 
But thou—no resurrection shalt 
thou have qo 
To life hereafter. 


THE MOTHER. 


Four! already four! 

Three are still living; nay, they 
all are living, 

Half here, half there. Make haste. 
Antiochus, 

To reunite us; for the sword that 
cleaves 

These miserable bodies makes a 
door 


692 





Through which our souls, impa- 
tient of release, 
Rush to each other’s arms. 


FIFTH VOICE (within). 


Thou hast the power ; 
Thou doest what thou wilt. Abide 
awhile, 
And thou shalt see the power of 
God, and how 
He will torment thee and thy seed. 


THE MOTHER. 


O hasten ; 
Why dost thou pause? Thou who 
hast slain already 81 
So many Hebrew women, and hast 
hung 
murdered infants 
their necks, slay me, 
For I too am a woman, and these 
boys 
Are mine. 
all, 
And hang my lifeless babes about 
my neck. 


Their round 


Make haste to slay us 


SIXTH VOICE (within). 


Think not, Antiochus, that takest 
in hand 

To strive against the God of Israel, 

Thou shalt escape unpunished, for 
his wrath 

Shall overtake thee and thy bloody 
house. 992 


THE MOTHER. 


One more, my Sirion, and then all 
is ended. 

Having put all to bed, then in my 
turn 

I will lie down and sleep as sound 
as they. 

My Sirion, my youngest. best be- 
loved! 

And those bright golden locks, 
that I so oft 

Have curled about these fingers, 
even now 

Are foul with blood and dust, like 
a lamb’s fleece, 


JUDAS MACCABAUS 


0 et ee 


Slain in the shambles.— Not a 
sound I hear. 

This silence is more terrible to me 

Than any sound, than any ery of 
pain, 100 

That might escape the lips of one 
who dies. 

Doth his heart fail him? Doth he 
fall away 

In the last hour from God? O 
Sirion, Sirion, 

Art thou afraid? I do not hear 
thy voice. 

Die as thy brothers died. Thou 
must not live! 


ScENE II.— THE MOTHER; AN- 
TIOCHUS ; SIRION. 


THE MOTHER. 
Are they all dead? 


ANTIOCHUS. 


Of all thy Seven Sons 
One only lives. Behold them where 
they lie; 
How dost thou like this picture? 


THE MOTHER. 


God in heaven! 

Can a man do such deeds, and yet 
not die 

By the recoil of his own wicked- 
ness ? 110 

Ye murdered, bleeding, mutilated 
bodies 

That were my children once, and 
still are mine, 

I cannot watch o’er you as Rizpah 
watched 

In sackeloth o’er the seven sons cf 
Saul, 

Till water drop upon you out of 
heaven 

And wash this blood away ! 
not mourn 

As she, the daughter of Aiah, 
mourned the dead, 

From the beginning of the barley: 
harvest 


I can- 


JUDAS MACCABZUS 


eee 


Until the autumn rains, and suf- 
fered not 

The birds of air to rest on them by 
day, 120 

Nor the wild beasts by night. For 
ye have died 

A better death, a death so full of 
life 

That I ought rather to rejoice than 
mourn, — 

Wherefore art thou not dead, O 
Sirion ? 

Wherefore art thou the only living 
thing 

Among thy brothers dead? Art 
thou afraid? 


ANTIOCHUS. 


O woman, I have spared him for 
thy sake, 

For he is fair to look upon and 
comely ; 

And I have sworn to him by all the 
gods 

That I would crown his life with 
joy and honor, 130 

Heap treasures on him, luxuries, 
delights, 

Make him my friend and keeper of 
ny secrets, 

If he would turn from your Mosaic 
Law 

And be as we are; but he will not 
listen. 


THE MOTHER. 
My noble Sirion! 


ANTIOCHUS. | 
Therefore I beseech thee, 
Who art his mother, thou wouldst 
speak with him, 
And wouldst persuade him. Iam 
sick of blood. 


THE MOTHER. 


Yea, I will speak with him and 
will persuade him. 

© Sirion my son! have pity on 
me, 


693 





On me that bare thee, and that 
gave thee suck, 140 

And fed and nourished thee, and 
brought thee up 

With the dear trouble of a mother’s 
care 

Unto this age. Look on the hea- 
vens above thee, 

And on the earth and all that is 
therein ; 

Consider that God made them out 
of things 

That were not; and that likewise 
in this manner 

Mankind was made. Then fear 
not this tormentor ; 

But, being worthy of thy brethren, 
take ; 

Thy death as they did, that I may 
receive thee 149 

Again in mercy with them. 


ANTIOCHUS. 


Iam mocked, 
Yea, I am laughed to scorn, 


SIRION. 


Whom wait ye for? 

Never will I obey the King’s com- 
mandment, 

But the commandment of the an- 
cient Law, 

That was by Moses given unto our 
fathers. : 

And thou, O godless man, that of 
all others 

Art the most wicked, be not lifted 
up, 

Nor puffed up with uncertain 
hopes, uplifting 

Thy hand against the servants of 
the Lord, 

For thou hast not escaped the 
righteous judgment ; 

Of the Almighty God, who seeth 


all things! 160 
ANTIOCHUS, 
He is no God of mine; I fear Him 
not. 


694 


JUDAS MACCABAUS 





SIRION. 

My brothers, who have suffered a 
brief pain, 

Are dead; but thou, Antiochus, 
shalt suffer 

The punishment of pride. I offer 
up 

My body and my life, beseeching 
God 

That He would speedily be merci- 
ful 

Unto our nation, and that thou by 
plagues 

Mysterious and by torments may- 
est confess 

That He alone is God. 


ANTIOCHUS. 


Ye both shall perish 
By torments worse than any that 


your God, 170 
Here or hereafter, hath in store 
for me. 


THE MOTHER. 
My Sirion, I am proud of thee! 


ANTIOCHUS. 
Be silent 

Go to thy bed of torture in yon 
chamber, 

Where lie so many sleepers, heart- 
less mother! 

Thy footsteps will not wake them, 
nor thy voice, 

Nor wilt thou hear, amid thy trou- 
bled dreams, 

Thy children crying for thee in the 
night! 


THE MOTHER. 


O Death, that stretchest thy white 
hands to me, 

I fear them not, but press them to 
my lips, 

That are as white as thine; for I 
am Death, 180 

Nay, am the Mother of Death, see- 
ing these sons 

All lying lifeless.— Kiss me, Si- 
rion, 


ACT III 


THE BATTLE-FIELD OF BETH= 
HORON 


SCENE I.— JUDAS MACCABZUS 
in armor before his tent. 


JUDAS. 


The trumpets sound; the echoes 
of the mountains 

Answer them, as the Sabbath 
morning breaks 

Over Beth-horon and its battle. 
field, 

Where the great captain of the 
hosts of God, 

A slave brought up in the brick- 
fields of Egypt, 
O’ercame the Amorites. 

was no day 


There 


Like that, before or after it, nor 


shall be. 

The sun stood still; the hammers 
of the hail 

Beat on their harness; and the 
captains set 

Their weary feet upon the necks 
of kings, 1a 

As I will upon thine, Antiochus, 

Thou man of blood! — Behold the 
rising sun 

Strikes on the golden letters of 
my banner, 


Be Elohim Yehovah! Who is 
like 

To thee, O Lord, among the gods? 
— Alas! 


Iam not Joshua, I cannot say, 

‘Sun, stand thou still on Gibeon, 
and thou Moon, 

In Ajalon!’ Nor am I one who 


wastes 

The fateful time in useless lamen- 
tation ; 

But one who bears his life upon 
his hand 20 

To lose it or to save it, as may 
best 

Serve the designs of Him who giv. 
eth life. 


JUDAS MACCABAUS 


—— 


SCENE IT.— JuDAS MACCABA&US; 
JEWISH FUGITIVES. 


JUDAS. 
Who and what are ye, that with 
furtive steps 
Steal in among our tents? 


FUGITIVES. 

O Maccabzeus, 

Outcasts are we, and fugitives as 

thou art, 

Jews of Jerusalem, that have es- 
caped 

From the polluted city, and from 
death. 


JUDAS. 
None can escape from death. 
that ye come 
To die for Israel, and ye are wel- 
come. 
What tidings bring ye? 


Say 


FUGITIVES. 
Tidings of despair. 

The Temple is laid waste; the 
precious vessels, 31 

Censers of gold, vials and veils 
and crowns, 

And golden ornaments, and hidden 
treasures, 

Have all been taken from it, and 
the Gentiles 

With revelling and with riot fill its 
courts, 

And dally with harlots in the holy 
places. 


JUDAS. 
All this I knew before. 


FUGITIVES. 
Upon the altar, 
Are things profane, things by the 
law forbidden ; 
Nor can we keep our Sabbaths or 
our Feasts, 
But on the festivals of Dionysus 
Must walk in their processions, 
bearing ivy 41 
To crown a drunken god. 


655 





JUDAS. 
This too I know. 
But tell me of the Jews. How fare 
the Jews? 


FUGITIVES. 

The coming of this mischief hath 
been sore 

And grievous to the people. All 
the land 

Is full of lamentation and of 
mourning. 

The Princes and the Elders weep 
and wail; 

The young men and the maidens 
are made feeble; 

The beauty of the women hath 
been changed. 


JUDAS. 


And are there none to die for Is- 
rael ? 50 

*T isnot enough to mourn. Breast- 
plate and harness 

Are better things than sackcloth. 
Let the women 

Lament for Israel; the men should 
die. 


FUGITIVES. 


Both men and women die; old 
men and young: 

Old Eleazer died: and Mahala 

With all her Seven Sons. 


JUDAS. 


Antiochus, 

At every step thou takest there is 
left 

A bloody footprint in the street, 
by which 

The avenging wrath of God will 
track thee out! 

It is enough. Go to the sutler’s 


tents: 60 
Those of you who are men, put on 
such armor 


As ye may find; those of you who 
are women, 

Buckle that armor on; and for @ 
watchword 


696 


JUDAS MACCABAUS 





Whisper, or cry aloud, ‘ The Help 
of God.’ 


ScENE III. — JuDAS MACCA- 


BAUS; NICANOR. 


NICANOR. 
Hail, Judas Maccabezeus! 


JUDAS. 


Hail!— Who art thou 
That comest here in this mysteri- 
ous guise 
Into our camp unheralded? 


NICANOR. 


A herald 
Sent from Nicanor. 


JUDAS. 


Heralds come not thus. 
Armed with thy shirt of mail from 
head to heel, 
Thou glidest like a serpent silent- 
ly 70 
Into my presence. Wherefore dost 
thou turn 
Thy face from me? 
speaks his errand 
With forehead unabashed. Thou 
art a spy 
Sent by Nicanor. 


A herald 


NICANOR. 


No disguise avails ! 
Behold my face; I am Nicanor’s 


self. 
JUDAS. 
Thou art indeed Nicanor. I salute 
thee. 


What brings thee hither to this 
hostile camp 
Thus unattended? 


NICANOR. 


Confidence in thee. 
Thou hast the nobler virtues of 


thy race, 
Without the failings that attend 
those virtues. 80 


Thou canst be strong, and yet not 
tyrannous, 

Canst righteous be and not intol- 
erant. 

Let there be peace between us. 


JUDAS. 


What is peace ? 

Is it to bowin silence to our vic- 
tors? 

Is it to see our cities sacked and 
pillaged, 

Our people slain, or sold as slaves, 
or fleeing 

At night-time by the blaze of burn- 
ing towns; 

Jerusalem laid waste; the Holy 
Temple 

Polluted with strange gods? Are 
these things peace ? 


NICANOR. 


These are the dire necessities that 
wait go 

On war, whose loud and bloody en- 
ginery 

I seek to stay. Let there be peace 
between 

Antiochus and thee. 


JUDAS. 


Antiochus ? 

What is Antiochus, that he should 
prate 

Of peace to me,who am a fugitive? 

To-day he shall be lifted up; to- 
morrow 

Shall not be found, because he is 
returned 

Unto his dust; his thought has 
come to nothing. 

There is no peace between us, nor 
can be, 

Until this banner floats upon the 
walls 100 

Of our Jerusalem. 


NICANOR. 


Between that city 
And thee there lies a waving wall 
of tents 


JUDAS MACCABAUS 


697 





Held by a host of forty thousand 
foot, 

And horsemen seyen thousand. 
What hast thou 

To bring against all these ? 


JUDAS. 


The power of God, 
Whose breath shall scatter your 
white tents abroad, 
As flakes of snow. 


NICANOR. 


Your Mighty One in heaven 
Will not do battle on the Seventh 


Day ; 
It is his day of rest. 
JUDAS. 


Silence, blasphemer. 
Go to thy tents. 


NICANOR. 
Shall it be war or peace ? 


JUDAS. 


War, war, and only war. Go to 
thy tents Ir 

That shall be scattered, as by you 
were scattered 

The torn and trampled pages of 
the Law, 

Blown through the windy streets. 


NICANOR. 
Farewell, brave foe! 


JUDAS. 
Ho, there, my captains! 
safe-conduct given 
Unto Nicanor’s herald through 
the camp, 
And come yourselves to me,— 
Farewell, Nicanor! 


Have 


ScENE IV. — JUDAS MACCA- 


BAUS; CAPTAINS AND SOL- 
DIERS. 
JUDAS. 
The hour is come, Gather the 
host together 


For battle. Lo, withtrumpets and 
with songs 

Thearmy of Nicanorcomes against 
us, ; 120 

Go forth to meet them, praying in 
your hearts, 

And fighting with your hands. 


CAPTAINS. 


Look forth and seet 
The morning sun is shining on 
their shields 
Of gold and brass; the mountains 
glisten with them, 
And shine like lamps. 
who are so few 
And poorly armed, and ready to 
faint with fasting, 
How shall we fight against this 
multitude ? 


And we, 


JUDAS. 


The victory of a battle standeth 
not 

In multitudes, but in the strength 
that cometh 

From heaven above. The Lord 
forbid that I 130 

Should do this thing, and flee away 
from them. 

Nay, if our hour be come, then let 
us die: 

Let us not stain our honor. 


CAPTAINS, 


’T is the Sabbath. 
Wilt thou fight on the Sabbath, 
Maccabzeus? 


JUDAS. 


Ay; when I fight the battles of the 
Lord, 

I fight them on his day, as on all 
others. 

Have ye forgotten certain fugi- 
tives 

That fled once to these hills, and 
hid themselves 

In caves? How their pursuers 
camped against them 

Upon the Seventh Day, and chal 
lenged them? 140 


698 


JUDAS MACCABAUS 





And how they answered not, nor 
cast a stone, 

Nor stopped the places where they 
lay concealed, 

But meekly perished with their 
wives and children, 

Even to the number of a thousand 
souls? 

We who are fighting for our laws 
and lives 

Will not so perish. 


CAPTAINS. 
Lead us to the battle! 


JUDAS. 
And let our watchword be, ‘ The 
Help of God!’ 
Last night I dreamed a dream; 
and in my vision 


Beheld Onias, our High-Priest of: 


old, 

Who holding up his hands prayed 
for the Jews. 150 

This done, in the like manner 
there appeared. 

An old man, and exceeding glo- 


rious, 

With hoary hair, and ot a wonder- 
ful 

And excellent majesty. And 


Onias said: 

‘This is a lover of the Jews, who 
prayeth 

Much for the people and the Holy 
City, — 

God’s prophet Jeremias.’ 

the prophet 

Held forth his right hand and 
gave unto me 

A sword of gold; and giving it he 


And 


said : 
*Take thou this holy sword, a gift 
from God, 160 


And with it thou shalt wound 
thine adversaries.’ 


CAPTAINS. 
The Lord is with us! 


JUDAS, 
Hark! I hear the trumpets 


Sound from Beth-horon; from the — 
battle-field 

Of Joshua, where he smote the 
Amorites, 

Smote the Five Kings of Eglon 
and of Jarmuth, 

Of Hebron, Lachish, and Jeru- 
salem, 

AS we to-day will smite Nicanor’s 
hosts 

And leave a memory of great 
deeds behind us. 


CAPTAINS AND SOLDIERS. 
The Help of God! 


JUDAS. 


Be Elohim Yehovah! 

Lord, thou didst send thine Angel 
in the time 170 

Of Esekias, King of Israel, 

And in the armies of Sennacherib 

Didst slay a hundred fourscore 
and five thousand. 

Wherefore, O Lord of heaven, now 
also send 

Before us a good angel for a fear, 

And through the might of thy 
right arm let those 

Be stricken with terror that have 
come this day 

Against thy holy people to blas- 
pheme! 


AOT IV 


THE OUTER COURTS OF THE 
TEMPLE AT JERUSALEM 


SCENE I.—JuUDAS MACCA- 
BAUS; CAPTAINS ; JEWS. — 


JUDAS. 


Behold, our enemies are discom- 
fited. 

Jerusalem has fallen; and our 
banners 

Float from her battlements, and 
over her gates 


‘Nicanor’s severed head, a sign of 


terror, 


-Blackens in wind and sun. 





JUDAS MACCABAUS 699 
CAPTAINS. I hold you back nolonger. Batter 
O Maccabzeus, down 
The citadel of Antiochus, wherein | The citadel of Antiochus, while 
The Mother with her Seven Sons here 
was murdered, We sweep away his altars and his 
Is still defiant. gods, 
JUDAS. 
Wait. SCENE II. — JUDAS: MACCA- 
BAUS; JASON; JEWS. 
CAPTAINS. 
Its hateful aspect JEWS. 
Insults us with the bitter mem-| Lurking among the ruins of the 
ories Temple, 
Of other days. Deep in its inner courts, we found 
this man, 


JUDAS. 


Wait; it shall disappear 

And yanish as a cloud. First let 
us cleanse II 

The Sanctuary. See, it is become 

Waste like a wilderness. Its gold- 
en gates 

Wrenched from their hinges and 
consumed by fire ; 

Shrubs growing in its courts as in 
a forest: 

Uponitsaltars hideous and strange 
idols; 

And strewn about its pavement 
at my feet 

Its Sacred Books, half-burned and 
painted o’er 

With images of heathen gods, 


JEWS. 
Woe! woe! 
Our beauty and our glory are laid 
waste! 20 


The Gentiles have profaned our 
holy places! 
(Lamentation and alarm of trum- 
pets.) 


JUDAS. 


This sound of trumpets, and this 
lamentation, 

The heart-cry of a people toward 
the heavens, 


Stir me to wrath and vengeance. 


Go, my captains; 


Clad as High-Priest. 


JUDAS. 


I ask not who thou art, 
I know thy face, writ over with de- 


ceit 31 

As are these tattered volumes of 
the Law 

With heathen images. A _ priest 
of God 

Wast thou in other days, but thou 
art now 

A priest of Satan. Traitor, thou 
art Jason. 

JASON. 

Iam thy prisoner, Judas Macca- 
beeus, 

And it would ill become me to 
conceal 


My name or office. 


JUDAS. 


Over yonder gate 

There hangs the head of one who 
was a Greek. 

What should prevent me now, thou 


man of sin, 40 
From hanging at its side the head 
of one 


Who born a Jew hath made him 
self a Greek? 


JASON. 
Justice prevents thee. 


700 


JUDAS. 
Justice? Thou art stained 
With every crime ’gainst which 
the Decalogue 
Thunders with all its thunder. 


JASON. 
If not Justice, 
Then Mercy, her handmaiden. 


JUDAS. 
When hast thou 
At any time, to any man or wo- 
“man, 
Or even to any little child, shown 
mercy ? 


JASON. 
I have but done what King An- 
tiochus 
Commanded me. 


JUDAS. 
True, thou hast been the weapon 
With which he struck; but hast 
been such a weapon, 51 
So flexible, so fitted to his hand, 
It tempted him to strike. So thou 
hast urged him 
To double wickedness, thine own 
and his. 
Where is this King? Is he in An- 
tioch 
Among his women still, and from 
his windows 
Throwing down gold by handfuls, 
for the rabble 
To scramble for? 


JASON. 
Nay, he is gone from there, 
Gone with an army into the far 
East. 


JUDAS. 
And wherefore gone ? 


JASON. 
I know not. For the space 
Of forty days almost were horse- 
men seen 61 


JUDAS MACCABAUS 





Running in air, in cloth of gold, 
and armed 

With lances, like a band of sok 
diery; 

It was a sign of triumph. 


JUDAS. 


Or of death. 
Wherefore art thou not witb 
him? 


JASON.: 


I was left 
For service in the Temple. 


JUDAS. 


To pollute it, 
And to corrupt the Jews; for there 
are men 
Whose presence is corruption; to 
be with them 
Degrades us and deforms the 
things we do. 


4 


JASON. 
I never made a boast, as some 
men do, 79 
Of my superior virtue, nor de- 


nied 

The weakness of my nature, that 
hath made me 

Subservient to the will of other 


men. 
JUDAS. 

Upon this day, the five-and-twenti- 
eth day 

Of the month Caslan, was the Tem- 
ple here 

Profaned by strangers,— by An 
tiochus 

And thee, his instrument. Upon 
this day 


Shall it be cleansed. Thou, who 
didst lend thyself ; 
Unto this profanation, canst not 


be 
A witness of these solemn ser 
vices. 8a 


JUDAS MACCABZUS 





There can be nothing clean where 
thou art present. 

The people put to death Callis- 
thenes, 

Who burned the Temple gates; 
and if they find thee 

Willsurely slay thee. I will spare 
thy life 


To punish thee the longer. Thou 
shalt wander 
Among strange nations. Thou, 


that hast cast out 
So many from their native land, 
shalt perish 
In a strange land. 
hast left so many 
Unburied, shalt have 
mourn for thee, 
Nor any solemn funerals at all, 90 
Nor sepulchre with thy fathers. — 
Get thee hence! 


Thou, that 


none to 


Music. Procession of Priests and 
people, with citherns, harps, and 
cymbals.’ JUDAS MACCABAUS 
puts himself at their head, and 

. they go into the inner courts. 


SCENE III.— JASON alone. 


JASON, 


Through the Gate Beautiful I see 
them come, 

With branches and green boughs 
and leaves of palm, 

And pass into the inner courts. 
Alas! 

I should be with them, should be 
one of them, 

But in an evil hour, an hour of 
weakness, 

That cometh unto all, I fell away 

From the old faith, and did not 
clutch the new, 

Only an outward semblance of be- 
lief ; 

For the new faith I cannot make 
mine own, 100 








701 

Not being born toit. It hath uo 
root 

Within me. I am neither Jew nor 
Greek, 

But stand between them both, a 
renegade 

To each in turn; haying no longer 
faith 


In gods or men. Then what mys: 
terious charm, 

What fascination is it chains my 
feet, 

And keeps me gazing like a curi- 
ous child 

Into the holy places, where the 
priests 

Have raised their altar ?— Strik- 
ing stones together, 

They take fire out of them, and 
light the lamps 110 

In the great candlestick. They 
spread the veils, 

And set the loaves of shewbread 
on the table. 

The incense burns; the well-re- 
membered odor 

Comes wafted unto me, and takes 
me back 

To other days. 
among them 

As I was then; and the old super- 
stition 

Creeps over me again!— A child- 
ish fancy ! — 

And hark! they sing with citherns 
and with eymbals, 

And all the people fall upon their 


I see myself 


faces, 

Praying and worshipping !— I will 
away 120 

Into the East, to meet Antio- 
chus 

Upon his homeward journey, 


crowned with triumph. 

Alas! to-day I would give every- 
thing 

To see a friend’s face, or tohear a 
voice . 

That had the slightest tone of 
comfort in it! 


702 


JUDAS MACCABAEUS 





ACT V 
THE MOUNTAINS OF ECBATANA 


SCENE I.—ANTIOCHUS; PHILIP; 
ATTENDANTS. 


ANTIOCHUS. 


Here let us rest awhile. 
are we, Philip ? 
What place is this ? 


Where 


PHILIP. 
Ecbatana, my Lord; 
And yonder mountain range is the 
Orontes. 


ANTIOCHUS. 


The Orontes is myriver at Antioch. 
Why did I leave it? Why have I 
been tempted 


By coverings of gold and shields | 


and breastplates 
To plunder Elymais, and be driven 
From out its gates, as by a fiery 
blast 
Out of a furnace ? 


PHILIP. 
These are fortune’s changes. 


ANTIOCHUS. 
What a defeat it was! The Per- 
sian horsemen 10 
Came like a mighty wind, the wind 
Khamaseen, 
And melted us away, and scat- 
tered us 
As if we were dead leaves, or des- 
ert sand. 
PHILIP. 
Be comforted, my Lord; for thou 
hast lost 


But what thou hadst not. 


ANTIOCHUS. 


I, who made the Jews 
Skip like the grasshoppers, am 
made myself 
To skip among these stones. 


PHILIP. 
Be not discouraged, 
Thy realm of Syria remains toe 
thee ; 
That is not lost nor marred. 


ANTIOCHUS. 
Oh, where are now 
The splendors of my court, my 
baths and banquets ? 20 
Where are my players and my 
dancing women ? 
Where are my sweet musicians 
with their pipes, 
That made me merry in the olden 
time? 
Iam a laughing-stock to man and 
brute. 
The very camels, with their ugly 
faces, 
Mock me and laugh at me. 


PHILIP. 


Alas! my Lord, 
It is not so. If thou wouldst sleep 
awhile, | 
All would be well. 


ANTIOCHUS. 


Sleep from mine eyes is gone, 
And my heart faileth me for very 


care. 
Dost thou remember, Philip, the 
old fable 30 


Told us when we were boys, in 
which the bear 

Going for honey overturns the 
hive, 

And is stung blind by bees? Jam 
that beast, 

Stung by the Persian swarms of 
Elymais. 


PHILIP. 


When thou art come again to An 
tioch, 

These thoughts will be as covered 
and forgotten 

As are the tracks of Pharaoh’s 
chariot-wheels 

In the Egyptian sands. 


JUDAS MACCABAUS 


793 


en 


ANTIOCHUS. 
Ah! when I come 
Again to Antioch! When will that 
be? 39 
Alas! alas! 


SCENE II. — ANTIOCHUS; 
PHILIP; A MESSENGER. 


MESSENGER. 
May the King live forever! 


ANTIOCHUS. 


Whe art thou, and whence comest 
thou? 


MESSENGER. 


My Lord, 
I am a messenger from Antioch, 
Sent here by Lysias. 


ANTIOCHUS. 


A strange foreboding 

Of something evil overshadows 
me. 

I am no reader of the Jewish 
Seriptures ; 

i know not Hebrew; but my High- 
Priest Jason, 

As ITremember, told me of a Pro- 
phet 

Who saw a little cloud rise from 
the sea 

Like a man’s hand, and soon the 
heaven was black 

With clouds and rain. Here, 
Philip, read; Icannot; 50 

I see that cloud. It makes the let- 
ters dim 

Before mine eyes. 


PHILIP (reading). 


‘To King Antiochus, 
The God, Epiphanes.’ 


ANTIOCHUS. 
Oh mockery ! 
Even Lysias laughs at me!— Go 
on, go on! 


PHILIP (reading). 

‘We pray thee hasten thy return. 
The realm 

Is falling from thee. Since thou 
hast gone from us 

The victories of Judas Maccabe- 
us 

Form all our annals. 
overthrew 

Thy forees at Beth-horon, and 
passed on, 


First he 


‘And took Jerusalem, the Holy 


City. 60 
And then Emmaus fell; and then 
Bethsura, 
Ephron and all the towns of Ga- 
laad, 
And Macecabeus marched to Car- 
nion.’ 
ANTIOCHUS. 


Enough, enough! 
chariot-men ; 

We will drive forward, forward, 
without ceasing, 

Until we come to Antioch. My 


Go call my 


captains, 

My Lysias, Gorgias, Seron, and 
Nicanor, 

Are babes in battle, and this 


dreadful Jew 
Will rob me of my kingdom and 


my crown. 
My elephants shall trample him to 
dust; 70 
I will wipe out his nation, and will 
make 
Jerusalem a common burying- 
place, 
And every home within its walls a 
tomb! 


Throws up his hands, and sinks 
into the arms of attendants, who 
lay him upon a bank. 


PHILIP. 
Antiochus! Antiochus! Alas, 
The King is ill! What is it, O my 
Lord? 


7o4 


JUDAS MACCABAUS 





ANTIOCHUS. 
Nothing. A sudden and sharp 
spasm of pain, 
As if the lightning struck me, or 
the knife 
Of an assassin smote me to the 
heart. 


*T is passed, even as it came. Let 
us set forward. 
PHILIP. 

See that the chariots be in readi- 

ness; 80 


We will depart forthwith. 


ANTIOCHUS. 


A moment more. 

I cannot stand. I am become at 

once 

Weak as an infant. 
to lead me. 

Jove, or Jehovah, or whatever 
name 

Thou wouldst be named,—it is 
alike to me, — 

If I knew how to pray, I, would en- 
treat 

To live a little longer. 


Ye will have 


PHILIP. 


_  Omy Lord, 
Thou shalt not die ; we will not let 
thee die! 


ANTIOCHUS. 


How canst thou help it, Philip? 
Oh the pain! 


Stab after stab. Thou hast no 
shield against go 

This unseen weapon. God of Is- 
rael, 

Since all the other gods abandon 
me, 

Help me. I will release the Holy 
City, 

Garnish with goodly gifts the Holy 
Temple. 

Thy people, whom I judged to be 
unworthy ° 


To be so much as buried, shall be 
equal 


Unto the citizens of Antioch. 

I will become a Jew, and will dee 
clare 

Through all the world that is in. 
habited 99 

The power of God! 


PHILIP. 


He faints. It is like death. 
Bring here the royal litter. We 
will bear him 
Into the camp, while yet he lives. 


ANTIOCHUS. 


O Philip, 
Into what tribulation am I come! 
Alas! Inowremember all the evil 
That I have done the Jews; and 
for this cause 
These troubles are upon me, and 
behold 
I perish through great grief in a 
strange land. 


PHILIP. 
Antiochus! my King! 


ANTIOCHUS. 


Nay, King no longer. 
Take thou my royal robes, my sig- 
net ring, — 
My crown and sceptre, and deliver 
them IIo 
Unto my son, Antiochus Eupator ; 
And unto the good Jews, my citi- 
zens, 
In all my towns, say that their 
dying monarch 
Wisheth them joy, prosperity, and 
health. 
I who, puffed up with pride and 
arrogance, 
Thought all the kingdoms of the 
earth mine own, 
If I would but outstretch my hand 
and take them, 
Meet face to face a greater poten. 
tate, 
Death — Epiphanes — the 
Illustrious! 


King 


[Dies 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


a eee tel 





795 


MICHAEL ANGELO: A FRAGMENT 


Michel piu che mortal, Angel divino. 


ARIOSTO. 


Similamente operando all’ artista 
Ch’ al’ abito dell’ arte e man che trema. 


DEDICATION 


NOTHING that is shall perish ut- 
terly, 
But perish only to revive again 
In other forms, as clouds restore 
in rain 
The exhalations of the land and 
sea. 
Men build their houses from the 
masonry 
Of ruined tombs; the passion 
and the pain 


Of hearts, that long have ceased | a 
| I must return to Fondi. 


to beat, remain 
To throb in hearts that are, or 
are to be. 
$0 from old chronicles, where 
sleep in dust 
Names that once filled the world 
with trumpet tones, 
I build this verse; and flowers 
.of song have thrust 
Their roots among the loose dis- 
jointed stones, 
Which to this end I fashion as I 
must. 
Quickened are they that touch 
the Prophet’s bones. 


PART FIRST 
I 
PROLOGUE AT ISCHIA 


The Castle Terrace. VITTORIA 
COLONNA and JULIA GONZAGA. 
VITTORIA. 


WILL you then leave me, Julia, 
and so soon, 





Dante, Par, xiii. st. 77. 


To pace alone this terrace like a 
ghost? 


JULIA. 


| To-morrow, dearest. 


VITTORIA, 
Do not say to-morrow. 


| A whole month of to-morrows were 


too soon. 


| You must not go. You are a part 


of me. 


JULIA. 


VITTORIA. 


The old castle 

Needs not your presence. Noone 
waits for you. 

Stay one day longer with me. 
They who go 

Feel not the pain of parting; it is 
they 

Who stay behind that suffer. I 
was thinking 10 

But yesterday how like and how 
unlike 

Have been, and are, our destinies. 
Your husband, 

The good Vespasian, an old man, 
who seemed 

A father to you rather than a hus- 
band, 

Died in your arms; but mine, in 
all the flower 

And promise of his youth, was 
taken from me 

As by arushing wind. The breath 
of battle 

Breathed on him, and I saw his 
face no more, 


706 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





Save as in dreams it haunts me. 
As our love 

Was for these men, so is our Sor- 
row for them. 20 

Yours a child’s sorrow, smiling 
through its tears ; 

But mine the grief of an impas- 
sioned woman, 

Who drank her life up in one 
draught of love. 


JULIA. 


Behold this locket. This is the 
white hair 


Ofmy Vespasian. This the flower- 
of-love, 

This amaranth, and beneath it the 
device, 

Non moritura. Thus my heart 
remains 


True to his memory; and the an- 
cient castle, 

Where we have lived together, 
where he died, 29 

Is dear to me as Ischia is to you. 


VITTORIA. 
I did not mean to chide you. 


JULIA. 


Let your heart 
Find, if it can, some poor apology 
For one who is teo young, and feels 
' too keenly 

The joy of life, to give up all her 
days 

To sorrow for the dead. While I 
am true 

To the remembrance of the man I 
loved 

And mourn for still, I do not make 
a show 

Of all the grief I feel, nor live se- 
cluded 

And, like Veronica da GAambara, 

Drape my whole house in mourn- 
ing, and drive forth 40 

In coach of sable drawn by sable 
norses, 

As if I were a corpse. Ah, one to- 
day 


Is worth for me a thousand yester- 
days. 


VITTORIA. 
Dear Julia! Friendship has its 
jealousies 
As well as Juve. Who waits for 
you at Fondi? 


JULIA. 

A friend of mine and yours; @ 
friend and friar. 

You have at Naples your Fra 
Bernardino ; 

And I at Fondi have my Fra Bas- 
tiano, 

The famous artist, who has come 
from Rome 

To paint my portrait. That is not 
@ sin. 5c 


VITTORIA. 
Only a vanity. 


JULIA. 
He painted yours. 


VITTORIA. 

Do not call up to me those days 
departed, 

When I was young, and all was 
‘bright about me, 

And the vicissitudes of life were 
things 

But to be read of in old histories, 

Though as pertaining unto me or 
mine 

Impossible. Ah, then I dreamed 
your dreams, 

And now, zrown older, I look back 
and see 

They were illusions, 


JULIA. 
Yet without illusions 
What would our lives become, 
what we ourselves ? 60 
Dreams or illusions, call them 
what you will, 
They lift us from the commonplace 
of life 
To better things. 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


VITTORIA. 
Are there no brighter dreams, 
No higher aspirations, than the 
wish 
To please and to be pleased? 


JULIA, 
For you there are: 
Iam no saint; I feel the world we 
live in 
Comes before that which is to be 
hereafter, 
And must be deait with first. 


VITTORIA. 
But in what way? 


JULIA. 


T,et the soft wind that wafts to us 
the odor 

Of orange blossoms, let the laugh- 
ing sea 70 

And the bright sunshine bathing 
all the world, 

Answer the question. 


VITTORIA. 
And for whom is meant 
This portrait that you speak of? 


JULIA. 
For my friend 
The Cardinal Ippolito. 


VITTORIA. ; 
For him? 


JULIA. 
Yes, for Ippolito the Magnificent. 
*Tis always flattering toa woman’s 


pride 

To be admired by one whom all 
admire. 

VITTORIA. 

Ah, Julia, she that makes herself 
a dove 

Is eaten by the hawk. Beon your 
guard. 

He is a Cardinal; and his adora- 
tion 80 


Should be elsewhere directed. 


fo? 





JULIA, 
You forget 

The horror of that night, when 
Barbarossa, 

The Moorish corsair, landed on 
our coast 

To seize me for the Sultan Soli- 
man ; 

How in the dead of night, when all 
were sleeping, 

He scaled the castle wall; howl . 
escaped, 

And in my night-dress, mounting a 
swift steed, 

Fled to the mountains, and took 
refuge there 

Among the brigands. Then of all 
my friends 

The Cardinal Ippolito was first 90 

To come with his retainers to my 
rescue. 

Could I refuse the only boon he 
asked 

At such a time, my portrait? 


VITTORIA. 
I have heard 

Strange stories of the splendors of 
his palace, 

And how, apparelled like a Span- 
ish Prince, 

He rides through Rome with a long 
retinue 

Of Ethiopians and Numidians 

And Turks and Tartars, in fantas- 
tic dresses, 

Making a gallant show. Is this 
the way 

A Cardinal should live? 


JULIA. 
He is So young; 
Hardly of age, or little more than 
that; 10r 
Beautiful, generous, fond of arts 
and letters, 
A poet, a musician, and a scholar; 
Master of many languages, and a 
player 
On many instruments. 
his palace 


In Rome, 


708 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





Is the asylum of all men distin- 
‘guished 

In art or science, and all Floren- 
tines 

Escaping from the tyranny of his 
cousin, 

Duke Alessandro. 


VITTORIA. 


I have seen his portrait, 
Painted by Titian. You have 
painted it 110 

In brighter colors. 


JULIA. 


And my Cardinal, 
At Itri, in the courtyard of his 
palace, 
Keeps a tame lion! 


VITTORIA. 


And so counterfeits 
St. Mark, the Evangelist! 


JULIA, 


: Ah, your tame lion 
Is Michael Angelo. 


VITTORIA. 


You speak a name 

That always thrills me with a noble 
sound, 

As of a trumpet! Michael Ange- 
lo! 

A lion all men fear and none can 
tame; 

A man that all men honor, and the 
model 

That all should follow: one who 
works and prays, 120 

For work is prayer, and conse- 
erates his life 

To the sublime ideal of his art, 

Till art and life are one; aman 
who holds 

Such place in all men’s thoughts, 
that when they speak 

Of great things done, or to be done, 
his name 

Is ever on their lips. 


JULIA. 


You too can paint 
The portrait of your hero, and in 
colors 
Brighter than Titian’s; I might 
warn you also 
Against the dangers that beset 
your path; 129 
But I forbear. 


VITTORIA. 


If I were made of marble, 

Of Fior di Persico or Payonaz- 
ZO, 

He might admire me: being but 
flesh and blood, 

I am no more to him than other 
women; 

That is, am nothing. 


JULIA. 


Does he ride through Rome 
Upon his little mule, as he was 
wont, 
With his slouched hat, and boots 
of Cordovan, 
As when I saw him last? 


VITTORIA. 


Pray do not jest. 

TI eannot couple with his noble 
name 

A trivial word! 

setting sun 

Lights up Castela-mare and Sor. 


Look, how the 


rento, 140 
And changes Capri to a purple 
cloud! 


And there Vesuvius with its plume 
of smoke, 

And the great city stretched upon 
the shore 

As ina dream! 


JULIA. 
Parthenope the Siren! 


VITTORIA. 


And yon long line of lights, those 


sunlit windows 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





Blaze lik the torches carried in | Shook in their sepulchire. 


procession 


To do her honor! It is beautiful! 


JULIA. 


I have no heart to feel the beauty 
of it! 

My feet are weary, pacing up and 
down 

These level flags, and wearier still 
my thoughts 150 

Treading the broken pavement of 
the Past. 

It is too sad. 
rest, 

And make me ready for to-mor- 
row’s journey. 


I will go in and 


VITTORIA. 


I will go with you; for I would not 
‘lose 

One hour of your dear presence. 
*T is enough 

Only to be in the same room with 
you. © 

I need not speak to you, nor hear 
you speak; 

If I but see you, I am satisfied. 

[They go in. 


MONOLOGUE: THE LAST JUDG- 
MENT 


MICHAEL ANGELO’s Studio. He 
is at work on the cartoon of the 
Last Judgment. 


MICHAEL ANGELO, 
Why did the Pope and his ten 


Cardinals 
Come here to lay this heavy task 
upon me? 160 


Were not the paintings on the 
Sistine ceiling 

Enough for them? They saw the 
Hebrew leader 

Waiting, and clutching his tem- 
pestuo 1s beard, 

But heeded not. The bones of 
Julius 





709 


I heard 





the sound; 
They only heard the sound of their 
own voices. 


Are there no other artists here in 
Rome 

To do this work, that they must 
needs seek me ? 

Fra Bastian,my Fra Bastian,might 
have done it, 

But he is lost to art. The Papal 
Seals, 170 

Like leaden weights upon a dead 
man’s eyes, 

Press down his lids; and so the 
burden falls 

On Michael Angelo, Chief Archi- 
tect 

And Painter of the Apostolie Pal- 
ace. 

That is the title they cajole me 
with, 

To make me do their work and 
leave my own; 

But having once begun, I turn not 
back. 

Blow, ye bright angels, on your 
golden trumpets 

To the four corners of the earth, 
and wake 

The dead to judgment! 

; cording angels, 

Open your books and read! 
dead, awake! 

Rise from your graves, drowsy and 
drugged with death, 

As men who suddenly aroused 
from sleep 

Look round amazed, and know 
not where they are! 


Ye re. 
180 


Ye 


In happy hours, when the imagina- 
tion 

Wakes like a wind at midnight, 
and the soul 

Trembles in all its leaves, it is a 
joy 

To be uplifted on its wings, and 
listen 

To the prophetic voices in the air 


710 


That call us onward. Then the 
work we do 190 

Is a delight, and the obedient hand 

Never grows weary. But how dif- 
ferent is it 

In the disconsolate, discouraged 
hours, 

When all the wisdom of the world 
appears 

As trivial as the gossip of a nurse 

In a sick-room, and all cur work 
seems useless, 


What is it guides my hand, what 
thoughts possess me, 

That I have drawn her face among 
the angels, 

Where she will be hereafter? O 
sweet dreams, 

That through the vacant cham- 
bers of my heart 200 

Walk in the silence, as familiar 
phantoms 

Frequent an ancient house, what 
will ye with me? 

Tis said that Emperors write 
their names in green 

When under age, but when of age 
in purple. 

So Love, the greatest Emperor of 
them all, 

Writes his in green at first, but 
afterwards 

In the imperial purple of our 
blood. 

First love or last love, — which of 
these two passions 

Is more omnipotent? 
more fair, 

The star of morning, or the even- 
ing star? 210 

The sunrise or the sunset of the 
heart? 

The hour when we look forth to 
the unknown, 

And the advancing day consumes 
the shadows, 

Or that when all the landscape of 
our lives 

Lies stretched behind us, and fa- 
miliar places 


Which is 


MICHAEL 


ANGELO 





Gleam in the distance, and sweet 
memories 

Rise like a tender haze, and mag: 
nify 

The objects we behold, that soon 
must vanish ? 


What matters it to me, whose 
countenance 

Is like Laocoon’s, full of paint 
whose forehead 220 

Is a ploughed harvest-field, where 
threescore years 

Have sown in sorrow and have 
reaped in anguish ? 

To me, the artisan, to whom all 
women 

Have been as if they were not, or 
at most 

A sudden rush of pigeons in the 
air, 

A flutter of wings, a sound, and 
then a silence? 

I am too old for love; I am too old 

To flatter and delude myself with 
visions 

Of never-ending friendship with 
fair women, 

Imaginations, fantasies, illusions, 

In which the things that cannot 
be take shape, 231 

And seem to be, and for the mo- 
ment are. 


Convent bells ring. 


Distant and near and low and loud 
the bells, 
Dominican, Benedictine, and Fran- 


ciscan, 

Jangle and wrangle in their airy 
towers, 

Discordant as the brotherhoods 
themselves 


In their dim cloisters. The de: 
scending sun 

Seems to caress the city that he 
loves, 

And crowns it with the aureole of 
a saint. 

I will go forth and breathe the air 
awhile. 240 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





Il 
SAN SILVESTRO 


A Chapel in the Church of San 
Silvestro on Monte Cavallo. 


VITTORIA COLONNA, CLAUDIO 
TOLOMMEI, and others. 


VITTORIA. 
Here let us rest awhile, until the 
crowd 
Has left the church. 
ready sent 
For Michael Angelo to join us 
here. 


I have al- 


MESSER CLAUDIO. 


After Fra Bernardino’s wise dis- 
course 


On the Pauline Epistles, certainly 


Some words of Michael Angelo on 
Art 


Were not amiss, to bring us back | 


to earth. 


MICHAEL ANGELO, at the door. 


How like a Saint or Goddess she 
appears! 

Diana or Madonna, which I know 
not, 

In attitude and aspect formed to be 

At once the artist’s worship and 
despair! 251 


VITTORIA. 


Welcome, Maestro. We were wait- 
ing for you. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


I-met your messenger upon the 
way, 
And hastened hither. 


VITTORIA. 


It is kind of you 
To come to us, who linger here 
like gossips 
Wasting the afternoon in idle talk. 
These are all friends of mine and 
friends of yours. 


711 
MICHAEL ANGELO. 
If friends of yours, then are they 
friends of mine. 
Pardon me, gentlemen. But when 
I entered 
I saw but the Marchesa. 


VITTORIA. 


Take this seat 
Between me and Ser Claudio To- 


lommei, 261 
Whostill maintains that our Italian 
tongue 


Should be called Tuscan. But for 
that offence 
We will not quarrel with him. 
MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Eccellenza — 


VITTORIA. 


Ser Claudio has banished Eccel- 
lenza 

And all such titles from the Tus- 
can tongue. 


MESSER CLAUDIO. 


’T is the abuse of them, and not the 
use, 
I deprecate. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


The use or the abuse, 
It matters not. Let them all go 


together, 
As empty phrases and frivoli- 
ties, 
And common as gold-lace upon the 
collar 271 
Of an obsequious lackey. 
VITTORIA. ; 
That may he, 


But something of politeness would 
go with them; 

We should lose something of the 
stately manners 

Of the old school. 


MESSER CLAUDIO. 
Undoubtedly. 


712 





VITTORIA. 
But that 
Is not what occupies my thoughts 
at present, 
Nor why I sent for you, Messer 


Michele. 

It was to counsel me. His Holi- 
ness 

Has granted me permission, long 
desired, 

To build a convent in this neigh- 
borhood, 280 


Where the old tower is standing, 
from whose top 

Nero looked down upon the burn- 
ing city. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
It is an inspiration! 


VITTORIA. 


I am doubtful 

How I shall build; how large to 
make the convent, 
And which way fronting, 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Ah, to build, to build! 
That is the noblest art of all the 
arts. 
Painting.and sculpture are but 
images, 
Are merely shadows cast by out- 
ward things 


On stone or canvas, having in them- 
selves 

No separate existence. Architec- 
ture, 290 

Existing in itself, and not in seem- 
ing 

A something it is not, surpasses 
them 

As substance shadow. Long, long 
years ago, 


Standing one morning near the 
Baths of Titus, 

I saw the statue of Laocoon 

Rise from its grave of centuries, 
like a ghost 

Writhing in pain; and as it tore 
away 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


eer 


The knotted serpents from its 
limbs, I heard, 

Or seemed to hear, the cry of 
agony 

From its white, parted lips. 
still I marvel 

At the three Rhodian artists, Vy 
whose hands 

This miracle was wrought. Yet 
he beholds 

Far nobler works who looks upon 
the ruins 

Of temples in the Forum here in 
Rome. 

If God should give me power in 
my old age 

To build for Him a temple half as 
grand 

As those were in their glory, I 
should count 

My age more excellent than youth 
itself, 

And all that I have hitherto ac. 
complished 

As only vanity. 


ie 


VITTORIA. 


T understand you. 
Art is the gift of God, and must be 


used 311 

Unto His glory. That in art is 
highest 

Which aims at this. When St. 
Hilarion blessed 

The horses of Italicus, they 
won 

The race at Gaza, for his benedic- 
tion 


Overpowered all magic; and the 
people shouted 

That Christ had conquered Mar- 
nas. So that art 

Which bears the consecration and 
the seal 

Of holiness upon it will prevail 

Over all others. Those few words 
of yours 320 

Inspire me with new confidence 
to build. 

What think you? The old walls 
might serve, perhaps, 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





Some purpose still. The tower 
ean hold the bells. 
MICHAEL ANGELO. 
If strong enough. 


VITTORIA. 
If not, it can be strengthened. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


I see no bar nor drawback to this 
building, 

And on our homeward way, if it 
shall please you, 

We may together view the site. 


VITTORIA. 


I thank you. 
I did not venture to request so 
much. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Let us now go to the old walls 
you spake of, 
Vossignoria — 


VITTORIA. 


What, again, Maestro? 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Pardon me, Messer Claudio, if 


once more 331 
I use the ancient courtesies of 
speech. 


I am too old to change. 


Ill 
CARDINAL IPPOLITO 


SCENE I.—A richly furnished 


apartment in the Palace of 
CARDINAL IPPOLITO. Night. 


JACOPO NARDI, an old man, 
alone. 


NARDI, 


¢€ am bewildered. These Numid- 
ian slaves, 


SCENE II.— JAcoPro 





713 


In strange attire; these endless 
antechambers ; : 

This lighted hall, with all its gold- 
en splendors, 

Pictures, and statues! 
be the dwelling 

Of a disciple of that lowly Man 

Who had not where to lay his 
head? These statues 

Are not of Saints; nor is wes a 
Madonna, 

This lovely face, that with sur 
tender eyes 

Looks down upon me from the 
painted canvas. 

My heart begins to fail me. What 
can he 

Who lives in boundless luxury at 
Rome 

Care for the imperilled liberties of 
Florence, 

Her people, her Republic? Ah, 
the rich 

Feel not the pangs of banishment. 
All doors 


Can this 


} Are open to them, and all hands 


extended. 
The poor alone are outcasts ; they 
who risked 


All they possessed for liberty, ue 


lost; 

And wander through the mora 
without a friend, 

Sick, comfortless, distressed, un- 
known, uncared for. 


NARDI; 
CARDINAL IPPOLITO, in Spar 
ish cloak and slowched hat. 


IPPOLITO. 


I pray you pardon me if I have 
kept you 


| Waiting so long alone. 


NARDIL 


I wait to see 
The Cardinal. 


74 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





IPPOLITO. 
I am the Cardinal; 
And you? 
NARDI. 
Jacopo Nardi. 


IPPOLITO. 


You are welcome. 
I was expecting you. Philippo 
Strozzi 
Had told me of your coming. 


NARDI. 


*T was his son 
That brought me to your door. 


IPPOLITQ. 


Pray you, be seated. 
You seem astonished at the garb I 


wear, 360 

But at my time of life, and with 
my habits, 

The petticoats of a Cardinal would 
be — 

Troublesome; I could neither ride 
nor walk, 


Nor do a thousand things, if I 
were dressed 

nike an old dowager. It were put- 
ting wine 

Young as the young Astyanax into 
goblets 

As old as Priam. 


NARDI.. 


Oh, your Eminence 
Knows best what you should wear. 


IPPOLITO. 


Dear Messer Nardi, 
You are no stranger to me. I 


have read 
Your excellent translation of the 
books 370 


Of Titus Livius, the historian 

Of Rome, and model of all histo- 
rians 

That shall come after him. It 
does you honor; 


But greater honor still the love 
you bear 

To Florence, our dear country, 
and whose annals 

I hope your hand will write, in 
happier days 

Than we now see. 


NARDI. 


Your Eminence will pardon 
The lateness of the hour. 


IPPOLITO. 


The hours I count not 
AS a sun-dial; but am like a clock, 
That tells the time as well by 
night as day. 380 
no excuse. I know what 
brings you here. 
You come to speak of Florence. 


So, 


NARDI. 
And her woes. 


IPPOLITO. 

The duke, my cousin, the black 
Alessandro, 

Whose mother was a Moorish 


slave, that fed 

The sheep upon Lorenzo’s farm, 
still lives 

And reigns. 


NARDI. 


Alas, that such a scourge 
Should fall on such a city! 


IPPOLITO. 


When he dies, 
The Wild Boar in the gardens of 
Lorenzo, 
The beast obscene, should be the 
monument 
Of this bad man. 


NARDI. 


He walks the streets at night 

With revellers, insulting honest 

men. 391 

No house is sacred from his lusts, 
The convents 


MICHAEL 


ANGELO 715 





Are turned by him to brothels, 
and the honor 

Of woman and all ancient pious 
customs 

Are quite forgotten now. The 
offices 

Of the Priori and Gonfalonieri 

Have beenabolished. All the ma- 


gistrates 

Are now his creatures. Liberty is 
dead. 

The very memory of all honest 
living 


Is wiped away, and even our Tus- 
‘can tongue 400 
Corrupted to a Lombard dialect. 


IPPOLITO. 


And, worst of all, his 
hand has broken 

The Martinella, — our great battle 
bell, 

That, sounding through three cen- 
turies, has led 

The Florentines to victory, — lest 
its voice 

Should waken in their soul some 
memory 

Of far-off times of glory. 


impious 


NARDI. 


What a change 

Ten little years have made! We 
all remember 

Those better days, when Niccola 


Capponi, 

The Gonfaloniere, from the win- 
dows 410 

Of the Old Palace, with the blast 
of trumpets, 

Proclaimed to the inhabitants that 
Christ 


Was chosen King of Florence; 
and already 

Christ is dethroned, and slain; 
and in his stead 

Reigns Lucifer! Alas, alas, for 
Florence ! 


IPPOLITO. 
Lilies with lilies, said Savonarola; 


Florence and France! 
Florence only, 

Or only with the Emperor’s hand 
to help us 

In sweeping out the rubbish. 


But I say 


NARDI, 
Little hope 
Of help is there from him. He 
has betrothed 420 


His daughter Margaret to this 
shameless Duke. 

What hope have we from such an 
Emperor ? 


IPPOLITO. 
Baccio Valori and _  Philippo 
Strozzi, 


Once the Duke’s friends and in- 
timates, are with us, © 

And Cardinals Salvati and Ridolfi. 

We shall soon see, then, as Valori 
says, 

Whether the Duke can best spare 
honest men, 

Or honest men the Duke. 


NARDI. 


We have determined 
To send ambassadors to Spain, 
and lay 
Our griefs before the Emperor, 
though I fear 430 
More than I hope. 


IPPOLITO. 


The Emperor is busy 

With this new war against the 
Algerines, 

And has no time to listen to com- 
plaints 

From our ambassadors; nor will I 
trust them, 

But go myself. 
ness 

For my departure, and to-morrow 
morning 

I shall go down to Itri, where I 
meet 

Dante da Castiglione and some 
others, 


All is in readi- 


716 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





Republicans and fugitives from 


Florence, 
And then take ship at Gaéta, and 
go 440 
To join the Emperor in his new 
crusade 
Against the Turk. 
time enough 
And opportunity to plead our 
cause. 


I shall have 


NARDI, rising. 

It is an inspiration, and I hail it 

As of goodomen. May the power 
that sends it 

Bless our beloved country, and re- 
store 

Its banished citizens. 
Florence 

Is now outside its gates. 
lies within 

Is but a corpse, corrupted and 
corrupting. 

Heaven helpus all. I will not 
tarry longer, 450 

For you have need of rest. Good- 
night. 


The soul of 


What 


IPPOLITO. 
Good-night ! 


SCENE III.— CARDINAL IPPo- 
LITO; FRA SEBASTIANO; 
Turkish attendants. 

IPPOLITO. 

Fra Bastiano, how your portly pre- 

sence 

Contrasts with that of the spare 

Florentine 
Who has just left me! 
FRA SEBASTIANO, 


AS we passed each other, 
I saw that he was weeping. 


IPPOLITO. 
Poor old man! 


FRA SEBASTIANO, 
Who is he? 


IPPOLITO. 


A brave soul; 
and the 


Jacopo Nardi. 

One of the Fuorusciti, 
best 

And noblest of them all; but he 
has made me 


Sad with his sadness. As I look 
on you 

My heart grows lighter. I behold 
aman 400 


Who lives in an ideal world, apart 

From all the rude collisions of our 
life, 

In a calm atmosphere. 


FRA SEBASTIANO, 
Your Eminence 
Is surely jesting. If you knew 
the life 
Of artists as I know it, you might 
think 
Far otherwise. 


IPPOLITO. 


But wherefore should I jest? 
The world of art is an _ ideaJ 
world, — j 
The world I love, and that I fain 
would live in; 
So speak tome of artists and of 


art, 
Of all the painters, sculptors, and 
musicians 470 


That now illustrate Rome. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


Of the musicians, 
I know but Goudimel, the brave 
maestro 
And chapel-master of his Holiness, 
Who trains the Papal choir. 


IPPOLITO. 


In church, this morning, 
T listened to a mass of Goudimel, 
Divinely chanted. In the Incar. 
natus, 
In lieu of Latin words, the tenor 
sang 
With infinite tenderness, in plain 
Italian, 
A Neapolitan love-song. 


MiCHAEL ANGELO 


717 





FRA SEBASTIANO. 
You amaze me. 
Was ita wanton song? 


IPPOLITO. 
Not a divine one. 
Iam not over-scrupulous, as you 


know, 481 
In word or deed, yet. such a song 
as that, 


Sung by the tenor of the Papal 
choir, 

And in a Papal mass, seemed out 
of place; 

There’s something wrong in it. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


There ’s something wrong 
In everything. We cannot make 
the world 
Goright. ’Tis not my business to 
reform 
The Papal choir. 
IPPOLITO. 
Nor mine, thank Heaven! 
Then tell me of the artists. 
FRA SEBASTIANO. 


Naming one 
I name them all; for there is only 
one ; 490 


His name is Messer Michael An- | 


gelo. 

All art and artists of the present 
day 

Centre in him. 


IPPOLITO. 
You count yourself as nothing? 


FRA SEBASTIANO, 


Or less than nothing, since I am 
at best 

Only a portrait-painter; one who 
draws 

With greater or less skill, as. best 
he may, 

The features of a face. 


IPPOLITO. 
And you have had 


The honor, nay, the glory, of por- 


traying 

Julia Gonzaga! Do you count as 
nothing 

A privilege like that? See there 
the portrait 500 

Rebuking you with its divine ex- 
pression. 


Are you. not penitent? He whose 
skilful hand 

Painted that lovely picture has’ 
not right 

To vilipend the art of portrait- 
painting, 

But what of Michael Angelo? 


FRA SEBASTIANO, 


But lately 
Strolling together down the 


crowded Corso, 


We stopped, well pleased, to see 


your Eminence 
Pass on an Arab steed, a noble 


creature, 

Which Michael Angelo, who is a 
lover . 

Of all things beautiful, and espe: 
cially 510 


‘When they are Arab horses, much 


admired, : 
And could not praise enough. 


IPPOLITO, to an attendant. 


Hassan, to-morrow, 

When I am gone, but not. till lam 
gone, — 

Be careful about that, —take Bar- 
barossa 


‘To Messer Michael Angelo the 


seulptor, 
Who lives there at Macello dei 
Corvi, 


‘Near to the Capitol; and take be- 


sides 


Some ten mule-loads of provender, 


and say 


‘Your master sends them to him as 


a@ present. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


A princely gift. Though Michae} 
Angelo 520 


718 MICHAEL 


Refuses presents from his Holi- 
ness, 
Yours he will not refuse. 


IPPOLITO. 


You think him like 

Thymeetes, who received the 
wooden horse 

Into the walls of Troy. 
book of Virgil 

Have I translated in Italian verse 

And shall, some day, when we 
have leisure for it, 

Re pleased to read you. When I 
speak of Troy 

I am reminded of another town 

And of a lovelier Helen, our dear 
Countess ; 

Julia Gonzaga. You remember, 
surely, 530 

The adventure with the corsair 
Barbarossa, 

And all that followed? 


That 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


‘A most strange adventure , 
A tale as marvellous and full of 
wonder 
As any in Boccaccio or Sacchetti; 
Almost incredible! 


IPPOLITO. 


Were [ a painter 
I should not want a better theme 
than that: 
The lovely lady fleeing through 
the night 
In wild disorder; 
ands’ camp 
With the red fire-light on their 
swarthy faces. 539 
Could you not paint it for me ? 


and the brig- 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


No, not I. 
It is not in my line. 


IPPOLITO. 


Then you shall paint 
The portrait of the corsair, when 
we bring him 


ANGELO 





A prisoner chained to Naples; for 
I feel 

Something like admiration for a 
man 

Who dared this strange adventure, 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


I will do it, 
But catch the corsair first. 


IPPOLITO. 
You may begin 
To-morrow with the sword. Has. 
san, come hither; 
Bring me the Turkish scimitar 
that hangs 
Beneath the picture yonder. Now 
unsheathe it. 
*T is a Damascus blade; you see 


the inscription 550 
In Arabic: La Allah! illa Al- 
lah !— 


There is no God but God. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


How beautiful 
In fashion and in finish! It is per- 
fect. 
The Arsenal of Venice cannot 
boast 
A finer sword. 


IPPOLITO. 
You like it? Itis yours. 


FRA SEBASTIANO., 
You do not mean it. 


IPPOLITO. 


Tam not a Spaniard. 
To say that itis yours and not to 
mean it. 
I have at Itri a whole armory 
Full of such weapons. When you 
paint the portrait 
Of Barbarossa, it will be of use. 
You have not been rewarded as 
you should be e61 
For painting the Gonzaga. Throw 
this bauble 


MICHAEL 


ANGELO 719 





Into the scale, and make the bal- 
ance equal. 

Till then suspend it in your studio; 

You artists like such trifles. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 
I will Keep it 
In memory of the donor. Many 
thanks. 


IPPOLITO. 


Fra Bastian, lam growing tired of 
Rome, 

The old dead city, with the old 
dead people ; 

Priests everywhere, like shadows 
on a wall, 

And morning, noon, and night the 
ceaseless sound 570 

Of convent bells. I must be gone 
from here; 

Though Ovid somewhere says that 
Rome is worthy 

To be the dwelling-place of all the 
Gods, 

I must be gone from here. 
morrow morning 

I start for Itri, and go thence by 


To- 


sea 

To join the Emperor, who is mak- 
ing war 

Upon the Algerines; perhaps to 
sink 


Some Turkish galleys, and bring 
back in chains 

The famous corsair. 
I avenge 

The beautiful Gonzaga. 


Thus would 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


An achievement 
Worthy of Charlemagne, or of Or- 
lando. 581 
Berni and Ariosto both shall add 
A canto to their poems, and de- 
seribe you 
As Furioso and Innamorato. 
Now I must say good-night. 


IPPOLITO. 
You must not go; 


First you shall sup with me. My 
seneschal, 

Giovan Andrea dal Borgo a San 
’ Sepolcro, — 

I like to give the whole sonorous 
name, 

It sounds so like a verse of the 
Atxneid, — 

Has brought me eels fresh from 
the Lake of Fondi, _ 590 

And Luecrine oysters cradled in 
their shells ; 

These, with red Fondi wine, the 
Czecuban 

That Horace speaks of, under a 
hundred keys 

Kept safe, until the heir of Post- 
humus 

Shall stain the pavement with it, 
make a feast 

Fit for Lucullus, or Fra Bastian 
even; 

So we will go to supper, and be 
merry. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


Beware! Remember that Bolse- 
na’s eels 

And Vernage wine once aiied: § a 
Pope of Rome! 


IPPOLITO. 


*T was a French Pope; and then 
so long ago; 600 

Who knows ?— perhaps the story 
is not true. 


IV 


BORGO DELLE VERGINE AT 
NAPLES 


Room in the Palace of JULIA 
GONZAGA. Night... JULIA GONe 
ZAGA, GIOVANNI VALDESSO. 

JULIA, 

Do not go yet. 


VALDESSO. 
The night is far advanced; 


720 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





i fear to stay too late, and weary |} But only to the better understand 


you 
With these discussions. 


JULIA. 


IT have much to say. 

I speak to you, Valdesso, with that 
frankness 

Which is the greatest privilege of 
friendship, — 

Speak as I hardly would to my 
confessor, 

Such is my confidence in you. 


VALDESSO. 
Dear Countess, 
If loyalty to friendship be a claim 
Upon your confidence, then I may 


claim it. 610 
JULIA. 

Then sit again, and listen unto 
things 

That nearer are to me than life it- 
self, 

VALDESSO, 

In all things I am happy to obey 

you, 


And happiest then when you com- 
mand me most. 


JULIA. 


Laying aside all useless rhetoric, 

That is superfluous between us 
two, : 

I come at once unto the point, and 
Say, 

You know my outward life, my 
rank and fortune ; 

Countess of Fondi, Duchess of Tra- 
jetto, 

& widow rich and flattered, for 
whose hand 620 

In marriage princes ask, and ask 


it only 

To be rejected. All the world can 
offer 

Lies at my feet. If I remind you 
of it 


Tt is not in the way of idle boast- 
ing, 


ing 
Of what comes after. 


VALDESSO. 


God hath given you also 
Beauty and intellect; and the sig- 
nal grace 
To lead a spotless life amid temp- 
tations 
That others yield to. 


JULIA, 


But the inward life, — 

That you know not; tis known 
but to myself, 630 

And is to me a mystery and a 
pain: 

A soul disquieted and ill at ease, 

A mind perplexed with doubts and 
apprehensions, 

A heart dissatisfied with allaround 
me, 

And with myself; so that some: 
times I weep, 

Discouraged and disgusted with 
the world. 


VALDESSO. 


Whene’er we cross a river at a 
ford, : 

If we would pass in safety, we 
must keep 

Our eyes fixed steadfast on the 
shore beyond, 

For if we cast them on the flowing 
stream, 64a 

The head swims with it; so if we 
would cross 

The running flood of things here 
in the world, 

Our souls must not look down, but 
fix their sight 

On the firm land beyond. 


JULIA, 


I comprehend you. 
You think I am too worldly; that 
my head 
Swims with the giddying whirl of 
life about me. 
Is that your meaning? 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


72ai 





VALDESSO, 
Yes; your meditations 
Are more of this world and its 
vanities 
Than of the world to come. 


JULIA, 


Between the two 
I am confused. 


VALDESSO. 


Yet have I seen you listen 
Enraptured when Fra Bernardino 
preached 651 

Of faith and hope and charity. 


JULIA, 
T listen, 
But only as to music without mean- 
ing. 
It moves me for the moment, and 
T think 
How beautiful it is to be a saint, 
As dear Vittoria is ; but lam weak 
And wayward, and I soon fall back 
again 
To.my old ways, so very easily. 
There are too many week-days for 
one Sunday. 


VALDESSO. 


Then take the Sunday with you 
through the week, 660 

And sweeten with it all the other 
days. 


JULIA. 


In part I do so; for to put a stop 

To idle tongues, what men might 
say of me 

Tf I lived all alone here in my pal- 
ace, 

' And not from a vocation that I feel 

For the monastic life, I now am 
living 

With Sister Caterina at the con- 
vent 

Of Santa Chiara, and I come here 
only 

On certain days, for my affairs, or 
visits 


Of ceremony, or to be with friends, 

For I confess, to live among my 
friends 6714 

Is Paradise to me; my Purgatory 

Is living among people I dislike. 

And so I pass my life in these two 
worlds, 

This palace and the convent. 


VALDESSO. 


It was then 
The fear of man, and not the love 
of God, 
That led you to this step, 
will you not 
Renounce the world, and give your 
heart to God,! 


Why 


JULIA, 


If God so commands it, 
Wherefore hath He not made me 


capable 680 
Of doing for Him what I wish to 
do 


As easily as I could offer Him 

This jewel from my hand, this 
gown I wear, 

Or aught else that is mine? 


VALDESSO, 


The hindrance lieg 
in that original sin, by which all 


fell, 
JULIA. 
Ah me, I cannot bring my troubled 
mind , 


To wish well to that Adam, our 
first parent, 

Who by his sin lost Paradise for 
us, 

And brought such ills upon us. 


VALDESSO. 


We ourselves. 
When we commit a sin, lose Para- 
dise, 690 


1 For some unexplained reason, the 
sentence has been left incomplete; ap- 
parently the omission was not more 
than a half line. : 


722 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





As much as he did. Let us think 
of this, 
And how we may regain it. 


JULIA. 
Teach me, then, 
To harmonize the discord of my 
life, 
And stop the painful jangle of 
these wires. 


VALDESSO. 
That is a task impossible, until 
You tune your heart-strings to a 
higher key 
Than earthly melodies. 


JULIA. 


How shall I do it? 
Point out to me the way of this 


perfection, 
And I will follow you; for you 
have made 
’ My soul enamored with it, and I 
cannot 700 


Rest satisfied until I find it out. 

But lead me privately, so that the 
world 

Hear not my steps; I would not 
give occasion 

For talk among the people. 


VALDESSO. 
Now at last 
I understand you fully. Then, 
what need 
Is there for us to beat about the 
bush? 
I know what you desire of me. 


JULIA. 
What rudeness! 
If you already know it, why not 
tell me? 
VALDESSO. 4 
Because I rather wait for you to 
ask it 
With your own lips. 
JULIA, 
Do me the kindness, then, 


To speak without reserve; and 


with all frankness, 71% 
If you divine the truth, will I con. 
fess it. 


VALDESSO. 
I am content. 


JULIA. 
Then speak. 


VALDESSO. 


You would be free 

From the vexatious thoughts that 
come and go 

Through your imagination, and 
would have me 

Point out some royal road and 
lady-like 

Which you may walk in, and not 
wound your feet. 

You would attain to the divine per- 
fection, 

And yet not turn your back upon 
the world; 

You would possess humility within, 

But not reveal it in your outward 
actions ; 721 

You would have patience, but 
without the rude 

Occasions that require its exer- 
cise; 

You would despise the world, but 
in such fashion 

The world should not despise you 
in return; 

Would clothe the soul with all the 
Christian graces, 

Yet not despoil the body of its 


gauds; 

Would feed the soul with spiritual 
food, 

Yet not deprive the body of its © 
feasts; 

Would seem angelic in the sight of 
God, 730 

Yet not too saint-like in the eyes 
of men; 

In short, would lead a holy Chris- 
tian life 


In such a way that even your 
nearest friend 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


723 





Would not detect therein one cir- 
cumstance 

To show a change from what it 
was before. 

Have [ divined your secret? 


JULIA. 


You have drawn 
The portrait of my inner self as 
truly 
As the most skilful painter ever 
painted 
A human face. 


VALDESSO. 


This warrants me in saying 
You think you can win heaven by 
compromise, 740 

And not by verdict. 


JULIA, 


You have often told me 
That a bad compromise was better 
even 
Than a good verdict. 


VALDESSO. 


Yes, in suits at law; 
Not in religion. With the human 
soul 
There is no compromise. 
alone 
Can man be justified. 


By faith 


JULIA. 


Hush, dear Valdesso; 
That isa heresy. Do not, I pray 
you, 
Proclaim it from the house-top, but 
preserve it 
As something precious, hidden in 
your heart, 
As I, who half believe and tremble 
at it. 750 


VALDESSO. 
I must proclaim the truth. 


JULIA. 
Enthusiast! 
Why must you? Youimperil both 
yourself 


And friends by your imprudence. 
Pray, be patient. 

You have occasion now to show 
that virtue 

Which you lay:stress upon. 
us return 

To our lost pathway. Show me by 
what steps 

I shall walk in it. 

[Convent bells are heard. 


Let 


VALDESSO. 


Hark! the convent bells 
Are ringing; it is midnight; I 
must leave you. 
And yet I linger. Pardon me, dear 
Countess, 
Since you to-night have made me 
. your confessor, 760 
If I so far may venture, I wili 
warn you 
Upon one point. 


JULIA, 
What is it? Speak, I pray you, 
For I have no concealments in my 
conduct ; 
Allis as open as the light of day. 
What is it you would warn me 
of? 


VALDESSO. 


Your friendship 
With Cardinal Ippolito. 


JULIA. 


What is there 

To cause suspicion or alarm in 
that, 

More than in friendships that I 
entertain 

With you and others? I ne’er sat 
with him 

Alone at night, as I am sitting 
now 770 

With you, Valdesso. 


VALDESSO. 


Pardon me; the portratt 
That Fra Bastiano painted was 
for him. 
Ts that quite prudent ? 


724 


MICHAEL 


ANGELO 





JULIA. 
That is the same question 
Vittoria put to me, when I last 
saw her. 
I make you the’ same answer. 
That was-not 
A pledge of love, but of pure grati- 
: tude. 
Recall the adventure of that dread- 
ful night 


When Barbarossa with two thou- | 
‘The Cardinal Ippolito, my master. 


sand Moors 

Landed upon the coast, and in the 
darkness. 

Attacked my castle. Then, with- 
out delay, 780 

The Cardinal came hurrying down 
from Rome 

To rescue and protect me. Was 
it wrong 

That in an hour like that I did not 
weigh 

Too nicely this or that, but granted 
him 


A boon that pleased him, and that 
flattered me? 


VALDESSO. 
Only beware lest, in. disguise of 
friendship, 
Another corsair, worse than Bar- 


barossa, 

Steal in and seize the castle, not 
by storm 

But strategy. And now I take my 
leave. 

JULIA. 

Farewell; but ere you go, look 
forth and see 790 

How night hath hushed. the clamor 
and the stir 


Of the tumultuous streets. The 
eloudless moon 

Roofs the whole city as with tiles 
of silver; 

The dim, mysterious sea in silence 
sleeps, 

And straight into the air Vesuvius 
lifts 


His plume of smoke. How beauti- 
ful it is! 
[Voices in the street, 


GIOVAN ANDREA. 
Poisoned at Itri. 


ANOTHER VOICE. 
Poisoned? Who.is poisoned? 


GIOVAN ANDREA. 


Call it malaria. It was very sud- 
den. [Julia swoons. 


Vv 
VITTORIA COLONNA 
A room in the Torre Argentina. 


VITTORIA COLONNA and JULIA 
GONZAGA, 


VITTORIA. 


Come to my arms and to my heart 
onee more; 800 

My soul goes out to meet you and 
embrace you, 

For we are of the sisterhood of 
Sorrow. 

I know what you have suffered. 


JULIA. 


Name it not. 
Let me forget it. 


VITTORIA. 


I will say no more. 

Let me look at you. Whata joy it 
is 

To see your face, to hear yom 
voice again! 

You bring with you a breath as of 
the morn, 

A memory of the far-off happy 
days 

When we were young. When did 
you come from Fondi? 


MICHAEL 


ANGELO 728 





JULIA. 
I have not been at Fondi since — 


VITTORIA, 
Ah me! 
You need not speak the word; I 


understand you. 811 
JULIA, 
I came from Naples by the lovely 


valley, 
The Terra di Lavoro. 


VITTORIA, 


And you find me 
But just returned from a long 
journey northward. 
I have been staying with that 
noble woman, 
Renée of France, the Duchess of 
Ferrara. 


JULIA. 


Oh, tell me of the Duchess. 
heard 

Flaminio speak her praises with 
such warmth 

That I am eager to hear more of 
her 

And of her brilliant court. 


I have 


VITTORIA. 


You shall hear all. 

But first sit down and listen pa- 

tiently 8221 
While I confess myself. 


JULIA. 


What deadly sin 
Have you committed? 


VITTORIA, 


Not a sin; a folly. | 


I chid you once at Ischia, when 
you told me 


That brave Fra Bastian was to | , 


paint your portrait. 


JULIA. 
Well I remember it. 


VITTORIA, 


Then chide me now, 

For I confess to something still 
more strange. 

Old as I am, I have at last con- 
sented 

To the entreaties and the suppli- 
cations 

Of Michael Angelo — 


JULIA. 
To marry him? 


VITTORIA. 

I pray you, do not jest with me! 
You know, 831 

Or you should know, that never 
such a thought 

Entered my breast. 
married. 

The Marquis of Pescara is my hus- 
band, 

And death has not divorced us. 


I am already 


JULIA, 
Pardon me. 
Have I offended you? 
VITTORIA. 


No, but have hurt me. 
Unto my buried lord I give my- 


self, 
Unto my friend the shadow of my- 
self, 
My portrait. It is not from van- 
ity, 
But for the love I bear him. 
JULIA, 
T rejoice 
To hear these, words. Oh, this will 
be a portrait 841 


Worthy of both of you! 
[A knock 


VITTORIA. 
Hark! he is coming. 


JULIA. 


| And shall I go or stay ? 


926 


VITTORIA. 
By all means, stay. 
The drawing will be better for 
your presence; 
You will enliven me. 


JULIA. 
I shall not speak ; 
The presence of great men doth 
take from me 


All power of speech. I only gaze 
at them 

In silent wonder, as if they were 
gods, 

Or the inhabitants of some other 
planet. 


Enter MICHAEL ANGELO. 


VITTORIA. 
Come in. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
I fear my visit is ill-timed ; 
T interrupt you. 


VITTORIA. 


No; this is a friend 
Of yours as well as mine,—the 
Lady Julia, 852 

The Duchess of Trajetto. 


MICHAEL ANGELO to JULIA. 


I salute you. 
’Tis long since I have seen your 
face, my lady ; 
Pardon me if I say that having 
seen it, 
One never can forget it. 


JULIA. 


You are kind 
To keep me in your memory. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


It is 
Ihe privilege of age to speak with 
frankness. 
You will not be offended when I 
say 
That never was your beauty more 
divine. 860 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





JULIA. 


When Michael Angelo. conde- 
scends to flatter 

Or praise me, I am proud, and not 
offended. 


VITTORIA. 


Now this is gallantry enough for 
one; 
Show me a little. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Ah, my gracious lady, 

You know I have not words to 
speak your praise. 

I think of youin silence. Youcon- 


ceal 

Your manifold perfections from all 
eyes, 

And make yourself more saint-like 
day by day, 

And day by day men worship you 
the more. 

But now your hour of martyrdom 
has come. 870 


You know why I am here. 


VITTORIA. 


Ah yes, I know it; 
And meet my faith with fortitude. 


You find me 

Surrounded by the labors of your 
hands: 

The Woman of Samaria at the 
Well, 

The Mater Dolorosa, and the 
Christ 


Upon the Cross, beneath which 
you have written 

Those memorable words of Ali- 
ghieri, 

‘Men have forgotten how much 
blood it costs.’ 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
And now I come to add one labor 


more, 
If you call that labor which is 
pleasure, 880 


And only pleasure. 


MICHAEL 





VITTORIA. 
How shall I be seated? 


MICHAEL ANGELO, opening his 
portfolio. 
Just as you are. The light falls 
well upon you. 


VITTORIA. 


I am ashamed to steal the time 
from you 

That should be given to the Sis- 
tine Chapel. 

How does that work go on? 


MICHAEL ANGELO, drawing. 
But tardily. 
Old men work slowly. Brain and 
hand alike 
Are dull andtorpid. To die young 


is best, 

And not to be remembered as old 
men 

Tottering about in their decrepi- 
tude. 

VITTORIA. 

My dear Maestro! have you, then, 
forgotten 890 

The story of Sophocles in his old 
age? 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
What story is it? 


VITTORIA. 


When his sons accused him, 
Before the Areopagus, of dotage, 
For all defence, he reads there to 

his Judges 
The Tragedy of C£dipus Colo- 

neus, — 
The work of his old age. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


’T is an illusion, 
A fabulous story, that will lead 
old men 
Into a thousand follies and con- 
ceits. 


ANGELO 727 
VITTORIA. 
So you may show to cavillers your 
painting 


Of the Last Judgment in the Sis- 
tine Chapel. goo 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Now you and Lady Julia shall re- 
sume 
The conversation that 
rupted. 


I inter- 


VITTORIA. 


It was of no great import: nothing 
more 

Nor less than my late visit to 
Ferrara, 

And what I saw there in the du- 
cal palace. 

Will it not interrupt you? 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Not the least. 


VITTORIA. 


Well, first, then, of Duke Ercole: 
aman 

Cold in his manners, and reserved 
and silent, 

And yet magnificent in all his 
ways; 

Not hospitable unto new ideas, 

But from state policy, and certain 


reasons git 

Concerning the investiture of the 
duchy, ! 

A partisan of Rome, and conse- 
quently 

Intolerant of all the new opin- 
ions. 

JULIA. 


[I should not likethe Duke. These 
silent men, 

Who only look and listen, are like 
wells 

That have no water in them, deep 
and empty. 

How could the daughter of a king 
of France 

Wed such a duke? 


728 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
The men that women marry, 
And why they marry them, will 


always be 920 
A marvel and a mystery to the 
world. 
VITTORIA. 


And then the Duchess, — how shall 
I deseribe her, 

Or tell the merits of that happy 
nature 

Which pleases most when least it 
thinks of pleasing ? 

Not beautiful, perhaps, in form 
and feature, 

Yet with an inward beauty, that 

shines through 

Each look and attitude and word 
and gesture ; 

A kindly grace of manner and be- 


havior, 

A something in her presence and 
her ways 

That makes her beautiful beyond 
the reach 930 

Of mere external beauty; and in 
heart 


So noble and devoted to the truth, 

And so in sympathy with all who 
strive 

After the higher life. 


JULIA. 


She draws me to her 
As much as her Duke Ercole re- 
pels me. 


VITTORIA, 


Then the devout and honorable 
women 

That grace her court, and make it 
good to be there; 

Francesca Bucyronia, the true- 
hearted, 

Lavinia della Rovere and the 
Orsini, 

The Magdalena and the Cherubina, 


And Anne de Parthenai, who sings | 
941 | 


$0 sweetly ; 





MICHAEL ANGELO 


All lovely women, full of noble 
thoughts 
And aspirations after noble things. 


JULIA. 


Boccaccio would have envied you 
such dames. 


VITTORIA, 


No; his Fiammettas and his Phi- 
lomenas 

Are fitter company for Ser Gio- 
vanni; 

I fear he hardly would have com- 
prehended 

The women that I speak of. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Yet he wrote 
The story of Griseldis. That is 
something 
To set down in his favor. 


VITTORIA, 


With these ladies 
Was a young girl, Olympia Mo- 


rata, 951 
Daughter of Fulvio, the learned 
scholar, 


Famous in all the universities: 


} A marveilous child, who at the 


spinning-wheel, 

And in the daily round of house- 
hold cares, 

Hath learned both Greek and 
Latin; and is now 

A favorite of the Duchess and com- 
panion 

Of Princess Anne. 
young Sappho 

Sometimes recited to us Grecian 
odes ° 

That she had written, with a voice 
whose sadness 96a 

Thrilled and o’ermastered me, and 
made me look 

Into the future time, and ask my 
self é. 

What destiny will be hers. 


This beautiful 


MICHAEL 





JULIA. 
A sad one, surely, 
Frost kills the flowers that blossom 
out of season; 
And these precocious intellects 
portend 
A life of sorrow or an early death. 


VITTORIA. 
About the court were many learned 
"men; 

Chilian Sinapius from beyond the 
Alps, 

And Celio Curione, and Manzolli, 

The Duke’s physician; and a pale 
young man, 970 

Charles d’Espeville of Geneva, 
whom the Duchess 

Doth much delight to talk with 
and to read. 

For he hath written a book of In- 
stitutes 

The Duchess greatly praises, 
though some eall it 

The Koran of the heretics. 


JULIA. 


And what poets 
Were there to sing you madrigals, 
and praise 
Olympia’s eyes and Cherubina’s 
tresses? 


VITTORIA. 


None; for great Ariosto is no 
more. 

The voice that filled those ee 
with melody 


Has long been hushed in avation. 


JULIA, 


You should have made 
A pilgrimage unto the poet’s tomb, 
And laid a wreath upon it, for the 
words 
He spake of you. 


VITTORIA. 
And of yourself no less, 


And of our master, Michael An- 


gelo. 


ANGELO 7209 





MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Of me? 


VITTORIA. 
Have you forgotten that he calls 
you 
Michael, less man than angel, and 
divine ? 
You are ungrateful. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


A mere play on words. 

That adjective he wanted for a 
rhyme, 

To match with Gian Bellino and 
Urbino. 


VITTORIA. 


Bernardo Tasso is no longer there, 
Nor the gay troubadour of Gas- 


cony, 991 

Clement Marot, surnamed by flat- 
terers 

The Prince of Poets and the Poet 
of Princes, 

Who, being looked upon with 


much disfavor 
By the Duke Ercole, has fled to 
Venice. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


There let him stay with Pietro 
Aretino, 


| The Scourge of Princes, also called 


Divine. 
The title is so common in our 
mouths, 
That even the Pifferari of Abruzzi, 
Who play their bagpipes in the 
streets of Rome 1000 
At the Epiphany, will bear it soon, 
And will deserve it better than 
some poets. 


VITTORIA. 
What bee hath stung you? 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
One that makes no honey; 
One that comes buzzing in through 
every window, 


730 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





And stabs men with his sting. A 
bitter thought 
Passed through my mind, but it 
is gone again; 
I spake too hastily. 
JULIA. 


I pray you, show me 
What you have done. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Not yet; it is not finished. 


PART SECOND 


I 
MONOLOGUE 


A room in MICHAEL ANGELO’S 
house. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Fled to Viterbo, the old Papal 
city 

Where once an Emperor, humbled 
in his pride, 

Held the Pope’s stirrup, as his Ho- 


liness 

Alighted from his mule! A ‘fugi- 
tive 

From Cardinal Caraffa’s hate, who 
hurls 

His thunders at the house of the 
Colonna, 

With endless bitterness ! — Among 
the nuns 

In Santa Caterina’s convent hid- 
den, 

Herself in soul a nun! And now 


she chides me 
For my too frequent letters, that 
disturb 10 


Her meditations, and that hinder. 


me 

And keep me from my work; now 
graciously 

She thanks me for the crucifix I 
sent her, 


And says that she will keep it: 
with one hand 

Inflicts a wound, and with 
other heals it. 


the 


[Reading. 

‘Profoundly I believed that God 
would grant you 

A supernatural faith to paint this 


Christ ; 

I wished for that which now I see 
fulfilled 

So marvellously, exceeding all my 
wishes. 

Nor more could be desired, or 
even so much. 20 

And greatly I rejoice that yor 
have made 

The angel on the right so beauti- 
ful; 

For the Archangel Michael will 
place you, 

You, Michael Angelo, on that new 
day, 


Upon the Lord’s right hand! And 
waiting that, 

How can I better serve you than 
to pray 

To this sweet Christ for you, and 
to beseech you 


To hold me altogether yours in all 


things.’ 

Well, I will write less often, or no 
more, 

But wait her coming. No one 
born in Rome 30 


Can live elsewhere; but he must 
pine for Rome, 


And must return to it. I, who am 
born 

And bred a Tuscan and a Floren- 
tine, 

Feel the attraction, and I linger 
here 

As if I were a pebble in the pave- 
ment 

Trodden by priestly feet. This K 
endure, 

Because I breathe in Rome an @ 
mosphere 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


Heavy with odors of the laurel 
leaves 

That crowned great heroes of the 
sword and pen, 

In ages past. I feel myself ex- 
alted 40 

To walk the streets in which a 
Virgil walked, 

Or Trajan rode in triumph; but 
far more, 

And most of all, because the great 
Colonna 

Breathes the same air I breathe, 
and is to me 

An inspiration. Now that she is 


gone, 

Rome is no longer Rome till she 
return. 

This feeling overmasters me. I 

’ know not 

Tf it be love, this strong desire to 
be 

Forever in her presence; but I 
know 

That I, who was the friend of soli- 
tude, 50 


And ever was best pleased when 
most alone, 

Now weary grow of my own com- 
pany. 

For the first time old age seems 
lonely to me. 


[Opening the Divina Commedia. 


I turn for consolation to the 
leaves 

Of the great master of our Tuscan 
tongue, 

Whose words, like colored garnet- 
shirls in lava, 

Betray the heat in which they 
were engendered. 


A mendicant, he ate the bitter 
bread 

Of others, but repaid their meagre 
gifts 


With immortality. In courts of 
princes 60 

He was a by-word, and in streets 
of towns 





73! 





Was mocked by children, like the 
Hebrew prophet, 


Himself a prophet. I too know 
the cry, 

Go up, thou bald head! from a 
generation 


That, wanting reverence, wanteth 
the best food 

The soul can feed on. 
not room enough 

For age and youth upon this littie 
planet. 

Age must give Way. There was 
not room enough 


There 4 


Even for this great poet. In his 
song 

I hear reverberate the gates of 
Florence, 7O 

Closing upon him, nevermore to 
open; 

But mingled with the sound are 
melodies 

Celestial from the gates of para- 
dise. 

He came and he is gone. The peo- 


ple knew not 

What manner of man was passing 
by their doors, 

Until he passed no more; but in 
his vision 

He saw the torments and beati- 
tudes 

Of souls condemned or pardoned, 
and hath left 

Behind him this sublime Apoca- 
lypse. 


I strive in vain to draw here on 


the margin 80 

The face of Beatrice. It is not 
hers, 

But the Colonna’s. Each hath his 
ideal, 

The image of some woman excel- 
lent, 


That is his guide. No Grecian art, 
nor Roman, 

Hath yet revealed such loveliness 
as hers. 


732 





II 


VITERBO 


VITTORIA COLONNA, at the con- 
vent window. 


VITTORIA. 

Parting with friends is temporary 
death, 

As all death is. Wesee no more 
their faces, 

Nor hear their voices, save in 
memory. 

But messages of love give us as- 
surance 

That we are not forgotten. Who 
shall say go 


That from the world of spirits 
comes no greeting, 

No message of remembrance? It 
may be 

The thoughts that visit us, we 
know not whence, 


Sudden as inspiration, are the 
whispers 

Of disembodied spirits, speaking 
to us 


As friends, who wait outside a 
prison wall, 

Through the barred windows 
speak to those within. 


[A pause. 
As quiet as the lake that lies be- 
neath me, 
As quiet as the tranquil sky above 
me, 
As quiet as a heart that beats no 
more, 100 
This convent seems. Above, be- 


low, all peace! 

Silence and solitude, the soul’s 
best friends, 

Are with me here, and the tumul- 
tuous world 

Makes no more noise than the re- 
motest planet. [4A pause, 

O gentle spirit, unto the third 
circle 

Of heaven among the blessed souls 
ascended, 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


———a 


Who, living in the faith and dying 


for it, 

Have gone to their reward, I do 
not sigh 

For thee as being dead, but for 
myself 


That I am still alive. Turn those 
dear eyes, 110 
Once so benignant to me, upon 


mine, 

That open to their tears such un- 
controlled 

And such continual issue. Still 
awhile 


Have patience; I will come to 
thee at last. 

A fewmore goingsinand out these 
doors, 

A few more chimings of these 
convent bells, 

A few more prayers,a few more 
sighs and tears, 

And the long agony of this life will 
end, 

And I shall be with thee. 
wanting 

To thy well-being, as thou art to 
mine, 120 

Have patience; I will come toe 
thee at last. 

Ye winds that loiter in these clois- 
ter gardens, 

Or wander far above the city walls, 

Bear unto him this message, that 
Tever 

Or speak or think of him, or weep 
for him. 


If lam 


By unseen hands uplifted in the 
light 

Of sunset, yonder solitary cloud 

Floats, with its white apparel 
blown abroad, 

And wafted up to heaven. It fades 


away, 

And melts into the air. Ah, would 
that I 130 

Could thus be wafted unto thee, 
Francesco, 

A cloud of white, an incorporeal 
spirit! 


MICHAEL 





III 


MICHAEL ANGELO AND BENVE- 
NUTO CELLINI 


SCENE I.— MICHAEL ANGELO, 
BENVENUTO CELLINI in gay 
attire. 


BENVENUTO. 


_Agood day and good year to the f 


divine 
Maestro Michael Angelo, 
sculptor! 


the 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Welcome, my Benvenuto. 


BENVENUTO. 
That is what 


My father said, the first time he } 


: beheld 

This handsome face. But say 
farewell, not welcome. 

Icome to take my leave. 
for Florence 

As fast as horse can carry me. I 


long 
To set once more upon its level 
flags 140 


These feet, made sore by your vile 
Roman pavements. 

Come with me; you are wanted 
there in Florence. 

The Sacristy is not finished. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Speak not of it; 
How damp and cold it was! How 
my bones ached 


And my head reeled, when I was | 


working there! 

Iam too old. I will stay here in 
Rome, 

Where all is old and crumbling, 
like myself, 

To hopeless ruin. 
to Rome. 


All roads lead 


BENVENUTO, 
And all lead out of it. 


I start | 


ANGELO 733 


MICHAEL ANGELO, 


There is a eharm, 

A certain something in the atmo- 

sphere, 150 

That all men feel, and no man 
can describe. 


BENVENUTO. 


| Malaria? 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Yes, malaria of the mind, 


| Out of this tomb of the majestic 


Past; 


|The fever to accomplish some 


great work 


| That will not let us sleep. I must 


goon 
Until I die. 


BEITVENUTO. 
Do you ne’er think of Florence ? 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Yes ; whenever 
I think of anything beside my 
work, 


‘I think of Florence, I remember, 


too, 

The bitter days I passed among 
the quarries iC 

Of Seravezza and Pietrasanta; 

Road-building in the marshes; stu- 
pid people, 

And cold and rain incessant, and 
mad gusts 

Of mountain wind, like howling 
Dervishes, 

That spun and whirled the eddy- 
ing snow about them 

As if it were a garment; aye, vex- 
ations 

And troubles of all kinds, that 
ended only 

In loss of time and money. 


BENVENUTO. 


True, Maestro; 
But that was not in Florence 
You should leave 


734 

Such work to others. Sweeter 
memories 170 

Cluster about you, in the pleasant 
city 


Upon the Arno. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


In my waking dreams 

I see the marvellous dome of 
Brunelleschi, 

Ghiberti’s gates of bronze, and 
Giotto’s tower ; 

And Ghirlandajo’s lovely Benci 
glides 

With folded hands amid my trou- 
bled thoughts, 

A splendid vision! 
with the old 

At a great pace. 
swift steeds 

See the near landscape fly and 
flow behind them, 

While the remoter fields and dim 
horizons 180 

Go with them, and seem wheeling 
round to meet them, 

Soin old age things near us slip 
away, 

And distant things go with us. 
Pleasantly 

Come back to me the days when, 
as a youth, 

I walked with Ghirlandajo in the 
gardens 

Of Medici, and saw the antique 
statues, 

The forms august of gods and god- 
like men, 

And the great world of art re- 
vealed itself 

To my young eyes. 
man hath done 


Time rides 


As travellers on 


Then all that 


Seemed possible to me. Alas! 
how little 190 
Of all I dreamed of has my hand 
achieved! 
BENVENUTO, 


Nay, let the Night and Morning, 
let Lorenzo 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





And Julian in the Sacristy at Flor- 
ence, 

Prophets and. Sibyls in the Sistine 
Chapel, 

And the Last Judgment answer. 
Is it finished ? 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 

The work is nearly done. 
this Last Judgment 

Has been the cause of more vexa- 


But 


tion to me 

Than it will be of honor. Ser 
Biagio, 

Master of ceremonies at the 


Papal court, 

A man _ punctilious and over 
nice, 200 

Calls it improper; says that those 
nude forms, 

Showing their nakedness in such 
shameless fashion, 

Are better suited to a common 
bagnio, 

Or wayside wine-shop, than a Pa- 
pal Chapel. 

To punish him I painted him as 
Minos 

And leave him there as master of 
ceremonies 

In the Infernal Regions. 
would you 

Have done to such a man? 


What 


BENVENUTO. 


I would have killed him. 
When any one insults me, if I 
can 
I kill him, kill him. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Oh, you gentlemen, 
Who dress iu silks and velvets, 
and wear swords, 211 
Are ready with your weapons, and 
have all 
A taste for homicide, 


BENVENUTO. 
I learned that lesson 


MICHAEL 


Under Pope Clement at the siege 
of Rome, 

Some twenty years ago. As I was 
standing ; 

Upon the ramparts of the Campo 
Santo 

With Alessandro Bene, I beheld 

A sea of fog, that covered all the 


plain, 

And hid from us the foe; when 
suddenly, 

A misty figure, like an appari- 
tion, 220 

Rose up above the fog,as if on 
horseback. 

At this I aimed my arquebus, and 
fired. 

The figure vanished; and there 
rose a cry 


Out of the darkness, long and 
fierce and loud, 


With imprecations in all lan- 
guages. 

It was the Constable of France, the 
Bourbon, 


That I had slain. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Rome should be grateful to you. 


BENVENUTO. 

But has not been; you shall hear 
presently. 

During the siege I served as bom- 
bardier, 

There in St. Angelo. His Holi- 
ness 230 

One day was walking with his 
Cardinals 

On the round bastion, while I stood 
above 


Among my falconets. All thought 
and feeling, 

All skill in art and all desire of 
fame, 

Were swallowed up in the delight- 
ful music 

Of that artillery. I saw far off, 

Within the enemy’s trenches on 
the Prati, 


ANGELO 735 
A Spanish cavalier in scarlet 
cloak; 


And firing at him with due aim 
and range, 

I cut the gay Hidalgo in two 
pieces. 240 

The eyes are dry that wept for 
him in Spain. 

His Holiness, delighted beyond 
measure 

With such display of gunnery, and 
amazed 

To see the man in scarlet cut in 
two, 

Gave me his benediction, and 
solved me 

From all the homicides I had com. 
mitted 

In service of the Apostolic Church, 

Or should commit thereafter. 
From that day 

I have not held in very high es- 
teem 249 

The life of man. 


ab- 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


And who absolved Pope Clement ? 
Now let us speak of Art. 


BENVENUTO. 
Of what you will. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Say, have you seen our friend Fra 
Bastian lately, 

Since by a turn of fortune he be- 
came 

Friar of the Signet ? 


BENVENUTO. 


Faith, a pretty artist 
To pass his days in stamping 
leaden seals 
On Papal bulls! 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


He has grown fat and lazy, 
As if the lead clung to him like a 
sinker. 
He paints no more since he was 
sent to Fondi 





By Cardinal Ippolito to paint 

The fair Gonzaga. Ah, you should 
have seen him 260 

As I did, riding through the city 
gate, 

In his brown hood, attended by 
four horsemen, 

Completely armed, to frighten the 
banditti. 

I think he would have frightened 
them alone, 

For he was rounder than the O of 
Giotto. 


BENVENUTO. 


He must have looked more like a 
sack of meal 
Than a great painter. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


’ Well, he is not great, 
But still I like him greatly. Ben- 


venuto, 

Have faith in nothing but in indus- 
try. 

Be at it late and early; perse- 
vere, 270 


And work right on through cen- | 


sure and applause, 
Or else abandon Art. 


BENVENUTO. 


No man works harder 
Than I do. I am not a moment 
idle. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
And what have you to show me? 


BENVENUTO. 


This gold ring, 
Made for his Holiness, — my latest 


work, 

And I am proud of it. A single 
diamond, 

Presented by the Emperor to the 
Pope. 


Targhetta of Venice set and tinted 
it; 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


I have reset it, and retinted it 

Divinely, as you see. The jewel 
lers 280 

Say L’ve surpassed Targhetta. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Let me see it. 
A pretty jewel. 
BENVENUTO. 


That is not the expression. 
Pretty is not a very pretty word 


| To be applied to such a precious 


stone, 
Given by ap Emperor to a Pope, 
and set 


' By Benvenuto! 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Messer Benvenuto, 
I lose all patience with you; for 
the gifts 
That God hath given you are of 
such a kind, 
They should be put to far more 
noble uses 
Than setting diamonds for the 
Pope of Rome. 290 
You can do greater things. 


BENVENUTO. 


The God who made me 
Knows why He mademe what Iam, 
— a goldsmith, 
A mere artificer. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Oh no; an artist, 
Richly endowed by nature, but 
who wraps 
His talent in a napkin, and con- 
sumes 
His life in vanities. 


BENVENUTO. 


Michael Angela 

May say what Benvenuto would 
not bear 

From any other man. 


He speak¢ 
the truth. ‘ 


MICHAEL 





I know my life is wasted and con- 


sumed 

In vanities; but I have better 
hours 300 

And higher aspirations than you 
think. 

Once, when a prisoner at St. An- 
gelo, 


Fasting and praying in the mid- 
night darkness, 

In a celestial vision I beheld 

A crucifix in the sun, of the same 
substance 

As is the sun itself. And since 
that hour 

There is a splendor round about 
my head, 

That may be seen at sunrise and 
at sunset 

Above my shadow on the grass. 
And now 

I know that I am in the grace of 
God, 310 

And none heneeforth can harm 
me. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


None but one, — 
None buf yourself, who are your 
greatest foe. 
He that respects himself is safe 
from others ; 
He wears a coat of mail that none 
can pierce. 


BENVENUTO. 
I always wear one. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


O incorrigible ! 
At least, forget not the celestial 
vision. 
Man must have something higher 
than himself 
To think of. 


BENVENUTO. 
That I know full well. Now listen. 
{ have been sent for into France, 
where grow 


ANGELO 737 


The Lilies that illumine heaven 
and earth, 320 

And carry in mine equipage the 
model 

Of a most marvellous golden salt- 
cellar 

For the king’s table; and here in 

’ my brain 

A statue of Mars Armipotent for 
the fountain 

Of Fontainebleau, colossal, won- 
derful. 

I go a goldsmith, to return a sculp- 
tor. 

And so farewell, great Master. 
Think of me 

As one who, in the midst of all his 
follies, 

Had also his ambition, and aspired 

To better things. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Do not forget the vision. 


SCENE II. — MIcHAEL ANGELO 
sitting down again to the Di- 
vina Commedia. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Now in what circle of his poem 
sacred 331 

Would the great Florentine have 
placed this man? 

Whether in Phlegethon, the river 
of blood, 

Or in the fiery belt of Purgatory, 

I know not, but most surely not 
with those 

Who walk in leaden 
Though he is one 

Whose passions, like a potent al- 
kahest, 

Dissolve his better nature, he is 
not 

That despicable thing, a hypocrite 

He doth not cloak his vices, noi 
deny them. 34! 

Come back, my thoughts, from him 
to Paradise. 


cloaks. 


738 





' IV 
FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO 


SCENE I.— MICHAEL ANGELO; 
FRA SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO. 


WICHAEL ANGELO, not turning 
round. 


Who is it? 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


Wait, for I am out of breath 
In climbing your steep stairs. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Ah, my Bastiano, 

If you went up and down as many 
stairs 

As I do still, and climbed as many 

‘ ladders, 

It would be better for you. Pray 
sit down. 

Your idle and luxurious way of 
living 

Will one day take your breath 
away entirely, 

And you will never find it. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


Well, what then? 
That would be better, in my appre- 
hension, 350 

Than falling from a scaffold. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


That was nothing. 
It did not killme; only lamed me 
slightly ; 
Tam quite well again. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


But why, dear Master, 
Why do you live so high up in 
your house, 
When you can live below and have 
a garden, 
As Ido? 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
From this window I can look 


MICHAEL 


ANGELO 


er 


On many gardens; o’er the city 
roofs 

See the Campagna and the Alban 
hills: 

And all are mine. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 
Can you sit down in them, 
On summer afternoons, and play 
the lute, 360 
Or sing, or sleep the time away ? 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
I never 
Sleep in the day-time; scarcely 
sleep at night ; 
I have not time. Did you meet 
Benvenuto 
As you came up the stair? 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 
He ran against me 
On the first landing, going at full 
speed; 
Dressed like the Spanish captain 
in a play, 
With his long rapier and his short 
red cloak. 
Why hurry through the world at 
such a pace? 
Life will not be too long. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
It is his nature, — 

A restless spirit, that consumes 
itself 


379 
With useless agitations. He o’er- 
leaps 
The goal he aims at. Patience is 
a plant 


That grows not in all gardens. 
You are made 
Of quite another clay. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 
And thank God for it. 
And now, being somewhat rested, 
I will tell you 
Why I have climbed these formid- 
able stairs. 
I have a friend, Francesco Berni, 
here, ; 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


738 





A very charming poet and com- 
panion, 

Who greatly honors you and all 
your doings, 379 

And you must sup with us, 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Not I, indeed. 
I know too well what artists’ sup- 
pers are. 
You must excuse me. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


I will not excuse you. 
You need repose from your inces- 
sant work; 
recreation, some 
hours of pleasure. 


some bright 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


To me, what you and other men 
call pleasure. 

Is only pain. Work is my recrea- 
tion, 

The play of faculty; a delight like 
that 

Which a bird feels in flying, or a 
fish 

In darting through the water,— 
nothing more. 

I cannot go. The Sibylline leaves 
of life 390 

Grow precious now, when only 
few remain. 

TI cannot go. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


Berni, perhaps, will read 
A canto of the Orlando Innamorato. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


That is another reason for not go- 
ing. 

If aught is tedious and intolerable, 

It isa poet reading his own verses. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


* Berni thinks somewhat better of 
your verses 
Than you of his. He says that you 
speak things, 


And other peets words. So, pray 
you, come. 399 


MICHAEL ANGELO, 


If it were now the Improvisatore, 

Luigi Pulci, whom I used to hear 

With Benvenuto, in the streets of 
Florence, 

Imight be tempted. Iwas younger 
then, . 

And singing in the open air was 
pleasant. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


There is a Frenchman here, named 
Rabelais, 

Once a Franciscan friar, and now 
a doctor, 

And secretary to the embassy: 

A learned man, who speaks all 
languages, 

And wittiest of men; who wrote a 
book 409 

Of the Adventures of Gargantua, 

So full of strange conceits one 
roars with laughter 

At every page; a jovial boon-com- 
panion 

And lover of much wine. 
is coming. 


He too 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Then you will not want me, who 
am not witty, 

And have no sense of mirth, and 
love not wine. 

I should be like a dead man at 
your banquet. 

Why should I seek this French- 
man, Rabelais ? 

And wherefore go to hear Fran- 
cesco Berni, 

When I have Dante Alighieri 
here, 419 

The greatest of all poets? 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


And the dullest; 
And only to be read in episodes. 
His day is past. Petrarca is our 
poet. 


740 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Petrarca is for women and for 
lovers, 

And for those soft Abati, who de- 
light 

To wander down long garden 
walks in summer, * 

Tinkling their little sonnets all day 
long, 

As lap-dogs do their bells. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


TI love Petrarca. 

How sweetly of his absent love he 
sings, 

When journeying in the forest of 
Ardennes! 

‘I seem to hear her, hearing the 
boughs and breezes 430 

And leaves and birds lamenting, 
and the waters 

Murmuring flee along the verdant 
herbage.’ 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Enough. It is all seeming, and no 
being. 

lf you would know how a man 
speaks in earnest, 

Read here this passage, where St. 
Peter thunders 

In Paradise against degenerate 
Popes 

And the corruptions of the church, 
till all 

The heaven about him blushes 
like a sunset. 

I beg you to take note of what he 


says 
About the Papal seals, for that 
concerns 440 


Your office and yourself. 


FRA SEBASTIANO, reading. 


Is this the passage? 
‘Nor I be made the figure of a seal 
To privileges venal and menda- 
cious; 
Whereat I often redden and flash 
with fire !’— 
That is not poetry. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
What is it, then? 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


Vituperation ; gall that might have 
spirted 
From Aretino’s pen. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Name not that man! 
A profligate, whom your Francesco 


Berni 

Describes as having one foot in the 
brothel 

And the other in the hospital ; who 
lives 450 

By flattering or maligning, as best 
serves 

His purpose at the time. He writes 
to me . 

With easy arrogance of my Last 
Judgment, 


In such familiar tone that one 
would say 

The great event already had trans 
pired, 

And he was present, and from ob- 
servation 

Informed me how the picture 
should be painted. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


What unassuming, unobtrusive 
men 

These critics are! Now, to have 
Aretino 


Aiming his shafts at you brings 
back to mind 46¢c 

The Gascon archers in the square 
of Milan, 

Shooting their arrows at Duke 
Sforza’s statue, 

By Leonardo, and the foolish rab. 
ble 

Of envious Florentines, that at 
your David 

Threw stones at night. 
tino praised vou. 


But Are 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


741 





MICHAEL ANGELO. 


His praises were ironical. He 
knows 

How to use words as weapons, and 
to wound 

While seeming to defend. 
look, Bastiano, 

See how the setting sun lights up 
that picture! 469 


But 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 
My portrait of Vittoria Colonna. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
It makes her look as she will look 
hereafter, 
When she becomes a saint! 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 
A noble woman! 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Ah, these old hands can fashion 
fairer shapes 
in marble, and can paint diviner 
pictures, 
Since I have known her. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 
And you like this picture; 
And yet it is in oils, which you de- 
test. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. | 
When that barbarian Jan Van 
Eyck discovered 
The use of oil in painting, he de- 


graded 

His art into a handicraft, and 
made it 

Sign-paintiny, merely, for a coun- 
try inn 480 

Or wayside wine-shop. °’Tis an 


art for women, 

Orforsuch leisurely and idle people 

As you are, Fra Bastiano. Nature 
paints not 

In oils, but frescoes the great 
dome of heaven 

With sunsets, and the lovely forms 
of clouds 

And flying vapors. 





FRA SEBASTIANO. 


And how soon they fade} 

Behold yon line of roofs and bel- 
fries painted 

Upon the golden background of 


the sky, 

Like a Byzantine picture, or a por- 
trait 

Of Cimabue. See how hard the 


outline, 490 
Sharp-cut and clear, not rounded 
into shadow. 
Yet that is nature. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


She is always right. 
The picture thatapproaches sculp- 
ture nearest 
Is the best picture. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


Leonardo thinks 
The open air too bright. We ought 
to paint 
As if the sun were shining through 
a mist. 
’T is easier done in oil than in dis- 
temper. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Do not revive again the old dis- 
pute ; 

I have an excellent memory for 
forgetting, 

But I still feel the hurt. Wounds 
are not healed 500 

By the unbending of the bow that 
made them. 


FRA SEBASTIANO, 


So say Petrarca and the ancient 
proverb. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


But that is past. Now Iam angry 
with you, ’ 

Not that you paint in oils, but that, 
grown fat 

And indolent, you do not paint at 
all, 


742 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





FRA SEBASTIANO. 
Why should I paint? Why should 
‘I toil and sweat, 
Who now am rich enough to live 
at ease, 
And take my pleasure ? 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


When Pope Leo died, 
He who had been so lavish of the 


wealth 

His predecessors left him, who re- 
ceived 510 

A basket of gold-pieces every 
morning, 

Which every night was empty, left 
behind 


Hardly enough to pay his funeral. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 
I care for banquets, not for funer- 


als, 

As did his Holiness. I have for- 
bidden 

All tapers at my burial, and pro- 
cession 


Of priests and friars and monks; 
and have provided 

The cost thereof be given to the 
poor! 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


You have done wisely, but of that 
I speak not. 

Ghiberti left behind him wealth 
and children; 520 

But who to-day would know that 
he had lived, 

If he had never made those gates 
of bronze 

In the old Baptistery, — those 
gates of bronze, 

Worthy to be the gates of Para- 
dise. 

His wealth is scattered to the 
winds; his children 

Are long since dead; but those 
celestial gates 

Survive, and keep his name and 
memory green. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


But why should I fatigue myself? 
I think 

That all things it is possible to 
paint 

Have been already painted; and 
if not, 530 

Why, there are painters in the 
world at present 

Who can accomplish more in two 
short months 

Than I could in two years; so it 
is well 

That some one is contented to do 
nothing, 

And leave the field to others. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
O blasphemer! 
Not without reason do the people 
call you 
Sebastian del Piombo, for the 
lead 
Of all the Papal bulls is heavy 
upon you, 
And wraps you like a shroud, 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 
Misericordia ! 
Sharp is the vinegar of sweet wine, 
and sharp 540 
The words you speak, because the 
heart within you 
Is sweet unto the core. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


How changed you ar¢ 
From the Sebastiano I once knew. 
When poor, laborious, emulous to 
excel, 
You strove in rivalry with Bai. 
dassare 
And Raphael Sanzio. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


Raphael is dead. 
He is but dust and ashes in his 
grave, 
While I am living and enjoying 
life, 


MICHAEL ANGELO | 


743 





And so am victor. One live Pope 
is worth 


A dozen dead ones. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Raphael is not dead; 
He doth but sleep; for how can 


he be dead BET 


Who lives immortal in the hearts 
of men? 

He only drank the precious wine 
of youth, 

The outbreak of the grapes, before 
the vintage 

Was trodden to bitterness by the 
feet of men. 

The gods have given him sleep. 
We never were 

Nor could be foes, although our 
followers, 

Whoare distorted shadows of our- 
selves, 

Have striven to make us so; but 
each one worked 


Unconsciously upon the other’s 
thought, 560 

Both giving and receiving. He 
perchance 


Caught strength from me, and I 
some greater sweetness 

And tenderness from his more gen- 
tle nature. 

I have but words of praise and 
admiration 

For his great genius; and the 
world is fairer 

That he lived in it. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


We at least are friends; 
So come with me. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


No, no; I am best pleased 
When I’m not asked to banquets. 
I have reached 
A time of life when daily walks 
are shortened, ; 
And even the houses of our dear- 
est friends, 570 


That used to be so near, seem far 
away. 


FRA SEBASTIANO. 


Then we must sup without you. 
We shall laugh 

At those who toil for fame, and 
make their lives 

A tedious martyrdom, that they 
may live 

A little longer in the mouths of 
men! 

And so, good-night. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Good-night, my Fra Bastiano. 


SCENE II.— MICHAEL ANGELO, 


returning to his work. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


How will men speak of me when I 
am gone, 

When all this colorless, sad life is 
ended, 

And I am dust? They will re- 
member only 

The wrinkled forehead, the marred 
countenance, ; 580 

The rudeness of my speech, and 
my rough manners, 

And never dream that underneath 
them all 

There was a woman’s heart of ten- 
derness ; 

They will not know the secret of 
my life, 

Locked up in _ silence, 
vaguely hinted 

In uncouth rhymes, that may per- 
chance survive 

Some little space in memories of 
men! 

Each one performs his life-work, 
and then leaves it; 


or but 


. Those that come after him will 


estimate 
His influence on the age in which 
he lived. 59 


744 


MICHAEL 


ANGELO 





Vv 
PALAZZO BELVEDERE 


TITIAN’S studio. A painting of 
Danaé with a curtain before it. 
TITIAN, MICHAEL ANGELO, 
and GIORGIO VASARI. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


So you have left at last your still 
lagoons, 

Your City of Silence floating in the 
sea, 

And come to us in Rome. 


TITIAN. 


I come to learn, 

But Ihave come too late. I should 
have seen 

Rome in my youth, when all my 
mind was open 

To new impressions. 
here 

Leads me about, a blind man, 
groping darkly 

Among the marvels of the past. I 
touch them, 

But do not see them. 


Our Vasari 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
There are things in Rome 
That one might walk barefooted 
here from Venice 600 
But to see once, and then to die 
content. 


TITIAN. 

I must confess that these majes- 
tic ruins 

Oppress me with their gloom. I 
feel as one 

Who in the twilight stumbles 
among tombs, 

And cannot read the inscriptions 
carved upon them. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
I felt so once; but I have grown 
familiar 
With desolation, and it has be- 
come 


No more a pain to me, buta de 
light. 


TITIAN. 


I could not live here. I must have 
the sea, 

And the sea-mist, with sunshine 
interwoven 610 

Like cloth of gold; must have be- 
neath my windows 

The laughter of the waves, and at 
my door 

Their pattering footsteps, or Iam 
not happy. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Then tell me of your city in the 
sea, 

Paved with red basalt of the Pad- 
uan hills. 

Tell me of art in Venice. 
great names, 

Giorgione, Titian, and the Tinto- 
retto, 

Illustrate your Venetian school, 
and send 

A challenge to the world. 
first is dead, 

But Tintoretto lives. 


Three 


The 
619 


TITIAN. 


And paints with fire, 
Sudden and splendid, as the light- 
ning paints 
The cloudy vault of heaven. 


GIORGIO. 
Does he still keep 
Above his door the arrogant in- 
scription 
That once was painted there,— 
‘The color of Titian, 
With the design of Michael An- 
gelo’? 


TITIAN. 


Indeed, I know not. ’T was a fook 
ish boast, 

And does no harm to any but him- 
self. 

Perhaps he has grown wiser. 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





MICHAEL ANGELO. 
When you two 
Are gone, who is there that re- 
mains behind 
To seize the pencil falling from 
your fingers ? 630 


GIORGIO. 

Oh, there are many hands up- 
raised already 

To clutch at such a prize, and 
hardly wait 

For death to loose your grasp, —a 
hundred of them: 

Schiavone, Bonifazio, Campagnola, 

Moretto, and Moroni; who can 
count them, 

Or measure their ambition? 


TITIAN. 


When we are gone, 
The generation that comes after us 
Will have far other thoughts than 
ours. Our ruins 
Will serve to build their palaces 
or tombs. 
They will possess the world that 
we think ours, 640 
And fashion it far otherwise. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


TI hear 
Your son Orazio and your nephew 
Marco 
Mentioned with honor. 


TITIAN. 


Ay, brave lads, brave lads. 

But time will show. There is a 
youth in Venice, 

One Paul Cagliari, called the Ver- 
ouese, 

Still a mere stripling, but of such 
rare promise 

That we must guard our laurels, 
or may lose them. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


These are good tidings: 
sometimes fear 


for I 


745 
That, when we die, with us all art 
will die. 
’Tis but a fancy. Nature will pro- 
vide 650 
Others to take our places. I re 
joice 


To see the young spring forward 
in the race, 

Eager as we were, and as full of 
hope 

And the sublime audacity of youth. 


TITIAN. 


Men die and are forgotten. The 
great world 

Goes on the same. 
myriads 

Of men that live, or have lived, or 
shall live, 

What is a single life, or thine or 
mine, 

That we should think all nature 
would stand still 

If we were gone? We must make 
room for others. 660 


Among the 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
And now, Maestro, pray unveil 
your picture 
Of Danaé, of which I hear such 
praise. 


TITIAN, drawing back the curtain. 
What think you? 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


That Acrisius did well 
To lock such beauty in a brazen 
tower, 
And hide it from all eyes. 


TITIAN. 
The model truly 
Was beautiful. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


And more, that you were present, 

And saw the showery Jove from 
high Olympus 

Descend in all his splendor. 


746 





TITIAN. 


. From your lips 
Such words are full of sweetness. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
You have caught 
fhese golden hues from your Ve- 
netian sunsets. 670 


TITIAN. 
Possibly. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Or from sunshine through a shower 

On the lagoons, or the broad Adri- 
atic. 

Nature reveals herself in all our 
arts. 

The pavements and the palaces of 
cities 

Hint at the nature of the neighbor- 
ing hills. 

Red lavas from the Euganean 


quarries 

Of Padua pave your streets; your 
palaces 

Are the white stones of Istria, and 
gleam 

Reflected in your waters and your 
pictures. 

And thus the works of every artist 
show 680 


Something of his surroundings and 
his habits. 

The uttermost that can be reached 
by color 

Is here accomplished. Warmth 
and light and softness 

Mingle together. Never yet was 
flesh 

Painted by hand of artist, dead or 
living, 

With such divine perfection. 


TITIAN. 
T am grateful 
For so much praise from you, who 
are a master ; 
While mostly those who praise 
and those who blame 
Know nothing of the matter, so 
that mainly 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


—ad 


Their censure sounds like praise, 
their praise like censure. 690 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Wonderful! wonderful! 
charm of color 
Fascinates me the more that in 


The 


myself 
The gift is wanting. I am not a 
painter. 
GIORGIO. 
Messer Michele, all the arts are 
yours, 


Not one alone; and therefore I 
may venture 
To put a question to you. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Well, speak on. 


GIORGIO. 


Two nephews of the Cardinal 
Farnese 

Have made me umpire in dispute 
between them 

Which is the greater of the sister 
arts, 

Painting or sculpture. 
me the doubt. 


Solve for 
7OO 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Sculpture and painting have a 
common goal, 

And whosoever would attain to it, 

Whichever path he take, will find 
that goal 

Equally hard to reach. 


‘ GIORGIO. 


No doubt, no doubts 
But you evade the question. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


When I stand 
In presence of this picture, I con- 
cede 
That painting has attained its ut. 
termost; 
But in the presence of my sculp- 
tured figures 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


747 





I feel that my conception soars 


beyond 
All limit I have reached. 


799 


GIORGIO. 
You still evade me. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Giorgio Vasari, I have often said 

That I account that painting as 
the best 

Which most resembles sculpture. 
Here before us 

We have the proof. 
rounded limbs! 

How from the canvas they detach 
themselves, 

Till they deceive the eye, and one 
would say, 

It is a statue with a screen behind 
it! 


Behold these 


TITIAN. 


Signori, pardon me; but all such 
questions 
Seem to me idle. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Idle as the wind. 
And now, Maestro, I will say once 


more 720 
How admirable I esteem your 
work, 
And leave you, without further in- 
terruption. 
TITIAN. 
Your friendly visit hath much hon- 
ored me, 
GIORGIO. 
Farewell. 


MICHAEL ANGELO to GIORGIO, 
going out. 
Tf the Venetian painters knew 
But half as much of drawing as of 
color, 
They would indeed work miracles 
in art, 
And the world see what it hath 
' never seen. 


VI 
PALAZZO CESARINI 


SCENE I.— VITTORIA COLONNA, 
seated in an arm-chair; JULIA 
GONZAGA, standing near her. 


JULIA. 


It grieves me that I find you still 
so weak 
And suffering. 


VITTORIA. 
No, not suffering; only dying. 

Death is the chillness that pre. 
cedes the dawn; 730 

We shudder for a moment, then 
awake 

In the broad sunshine of the other 
life. 

Iam a shadow, merely, and these 
hands, 

These cheeks, these eyes, these 
tresses that my husband 

Once thought so beautiful, and I 
was proud of 

Because he thought them so, are 
faded quite, — 

All beauty gone from them. 


JULIA. 


Ah, no, not that. 
Paler you are, but not less beauti- 
ful. 


VITTORIA, folding her hands. 


O gentle spirit, unto the third cir- 
cle 

Of heaven among the blessed souls 
ascended, 

Who living for the faith and aving 
for it, 

Have gone to their reward, I do 
not mourn 

For thee as being dead, but for 
myself 

That I am still alive. 
longer 

Have patience with me, and if I 
am wanting 


A little 


748 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





To thy well-being as thou art to 
mine, 

Have patience; I will come to 
thee ere long. 


JULIA. 


Do not give way to these forebod- 
ing thoughts. 


VITTORIA. 


Hand me the mirror. 
fain behold 
What change comes o’er our fea- 
tures when we die. 750 

Thank you. And now sit down 
beside me here. 

How glad I am that you have 
come to-day, 

Above all other days, and at the 
hour 

When most I need you. 


I would 


JULIA. 
Do you ever need me? 


VITTORIA. 


Always, and most of all to-day and 
now. 

Do you remember, Julia, when we 
walked, 

One afternoon, upon the castle ter- 
race 

At Ischia, on the day before you 
left me? 


JULIA. 


Well I remember; but it seems to 
me 
Something unreal that has never 


been, 760 
Something that I have read of in 
a book, 


Or heard of some one else. 


VITTORIA. 


Ten years and more 
Have passed since then; and many 
things have happened 
In those ten years, and many 
friends have died: 


Mareo Flaminio, whom we all ad 


mired 

And loved as our Catullus; dear 
Valdesso, 

The noble champion of free 


thought and speech; 
And Cardinal Ippolito, your friend, 


JULIA. 


Oh, do not speak of him! 
sudden death 
O’ercomes me how, as it o’ercame 
me then. 770 
Let me forget it; for my memory 
Serves me too often as an unkind 


His 


friend, 

And I remember things I would 
forget, 

While I forget the things I would 
remember. 

VITTORIA. 

Forgive me; I will speak of him 
no more. 

The good Fra Bernardino has de- 
parted, 


Has fled from Italy, and crossed 
the Alps, 

Fearing Carafia’s wrath, because 
he taught 

That He who made us all without 
our help 

Could also save us without aid of 
ours. 78a 

Renée of France, the Duchess of 
Ferrara, 

That Lily of the Loire, is bowed 
by winds 

That blow from Rome; Olympia 
Morata 

Banished from court because of 
this new doctrine. 

Therefore be cautious. Keep your 
secret thought 

Locked in your breast. 


JULIA. 
I will be very prudent, 
But speak no more, I pray; it wea 
ries you. 





MICHAEL ANGELO 74S 
VITTORIA. Above her in the air. I can see 
Yes, I am very weary. Read to naught 

me. Except the painted angels on the 
ceiling. 810 
JULIA. Vittoria! speak! What is it? 

Most willingly. What shall I . Answer me! — 
read? She only smiles, and stretches out 


VITTORIA. 


Petrarca’s 
Triumph of Death. The book lies 
on the table, 
Beside the casket there. 
where you find 
The leaf turned down. ’T was 
there I left off reading. 


79° 
Read 


JULIA reads. 


* Not as a flame that by some force 
is spent, 
But one that of itself consumeth 
quite, 
Departed hence in peace the 
soul content, 
In fashion of a soft and lucent 
light 
Whose nutriment by slow grada- 
tion goes, 
Keeping until the end its lustre 
bright. 
Not pale, but whiter than the sheet 
of snows ; 
That without wind on some fair 
hill-top lies, 800 
Her weary body seemed to find 
repose. 
Like a sweet slumber in her lovely 
eyes, 
When now the spirit was no 
longer there, 
Was what is dying called by the 
unwise. 
E’en Death itself in her fair face 
seemed fair,’ 


Is it of Laura that he here is 
speaking ?— 

She doth not answer, yet is not 
asleep; 

Her eyes are full of light and fixed 
on something 


her hands. 
[The mirror falls and breaks. 


VITTORIA. 


Call my confessor ! — 
Not disobedient to the heavenly 
vision! 


Pescara! my Pescara! [ Dies. 


JULIA, 
Holy Virgin! 
Her body sinks together, — she is 
dead! 
[Kneels, and hides her face in 
Vittoria’s lap. 


SCENE II.— JULIA GONZAGA, 
MICHAEL ANGELO. 


JULIA. 
Hush! make no noise. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
How is she? 


JULIA. 
Never better. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Then she is dead? 


JULIA. 


Alas! yes, she is dead ! 
Even death itself in her fair face 
seems fair. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


How wonderful! The light upon 
her face 820 

Shines from the windows of an- 
other world. 

Saints only have such faces. Holy 
Angels! 


75° 





Bear her like sainted Catherine to 


her rest! 
[Kisses Vittoria’s hand. 


PART THIRD 
I 
MONOLOGUE 


Macelio de’ Corvi. A room in 
MICHAEL ANGELO’S house. 


MICHAEL ANGELO, standing be- 
Sore a model of St. Peter's. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Better than thou I cannot, Brunel- 
leschi, 

And less than thou I will not! If 
the thought 

Could, like a windlass, lift the 
ponderous stones 

And swing them to their places; 
if a breath 

Could blow this rounded dome 
into the air, 

As if it were a bubble, and these 


statues 

Spring at a signal to their sacred 
stations, 

As sentinels mount guard upon a 
wall, 

Then were my task completed. 
Now, alas! 

Naught am I but a Saint Sebaldus, 
holding ite) 

Tpon his hand the model of a 
church, 


As German artists paint him; and 
what years, 

What weary years, must drag 
themselves along, 

Ere this. be turned to stone! 
What hindrances 

Must block the way ; what idle in- 
terferences 

Of Cardinals and Canons of St. 
Peter’s, 

Who nothing know of art beyond 
the color 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


ed 


Of cloaks and stockings, nor ot 
any building 

Save that of their own fortunes! 
And what then? 

I must then the short-coming of 
my means 20 

Piece out by stepping forward, as 
the Spartan 

Was told to add a step to his short 
sword. 

[A pause. 

And is Fra Bastian dead? Is all 
that light 

Gone out? that sunshine dark- 
ened? all that music 

And merriment, that used to make 
our lives 

Less melancholy, swallowed up in 
silence 

Like madrigals sung in the street 
at night 

By passing revellers? Itis strange 
indeed 

That he should die before me. 
against 

The laws of nature that the rae 
should die, 

And the old live; unless it be that 
some 

Have long been dead who think 
themselves alive, 

Because not buried. Well, what 
matters it, 

Since now that greater light, that 
was my sun, 

Is set, and all is darkness, all is 
darkness ! 

Death’s lightnings strike to right 
and left of me, 

And, like a ruined wall, the world 
around me 

Crumbles away, and I am left 
alone. 

I have no friends, and want noné 
My own thoughts 

Are now my sole companions, - 
thoughts of her, 

That like a benediction from ae 
skies 

Come to me in my solitude and 
soothe me. 


‘Tis 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


75% 





When men are old, the incessant 
thought of Death 

Follows them like their shadow: 
sits with them 


At every meal; sleeps with them 


when they sleep; 

And when they wake already is 
awake, 

And standing by their bedside. 
Then, what folly 

Tt is in us to make an enemy 

Of this importunate follower, not 
a friend! 

To me a friend, aud not an enemy, 

Has he become since all my friends 
are dead. 51 


II 


VIGNA DI PAPA GIULIO 


SCENE I.—PoPE Ju.Lius III. 
seated by the Fountain of Acqua 
Vergine, surrounded by Cardi- 
nals. 


JULIUS. 
Tell me, why is it ye are discon- 
tent. 
You, Cardinals Salviati and Mar- 
cello, 
With Michael Angelo? What has 
he done, 


Or left undone, that ye are set 
against him ? 

When one Pope dies, another is 
soon made; 

And I can make a dozen Cardi- 
nals, 

But cannot make one Michael 
Angelo. 


CARDINAL SALVIATI. 


Your Holiness, we are not set 
against him ; 

We but deplore his incapacity. 60 

He is too old. 


JULIUS. 


You, Cardinal Salviati, 
Are an old man. Are you inca- 
pable? 


‘T is the old ox that draws the 
straightest furrow. 


CARDINAL MARCELLO. 


Your Holiness remembers he was 
charged 

With the repairs upon St. Mary’s 
bridge ; 

Made cofferdams, and heaped up 
load on load 

Of timber and travertine ; and yet 
for years 

The bridge remained unfinished, 
till we gave it 

To Baccio Bigio. 


JULIUS. 


Always Baccio Bigio! 
Is there no other architect on 
earth ? 70 
Was it not he that sometime had 
in charge 
The harbor of Ancona? 


CARDINAL MARCELLO. 
Ay, the same. 


JULIUS. 


Then let me tell you that your 
Baccio Bigio 

Did greater damage ina single day 

To that fair harbor than the sea 
had done 

Or would do in ten years. 
him you think 

To put in place of Michael Angelo, 

In building the Basilica of St. 
Peter! 

The ass that thinks himself a stag 
discovers 

His error when he comes to leap 
the ditch. $a 


And 


CARDINAL MARCELLO. 


He does not build; he but de- 
molishes 

The labors of Bramante and San 
Gallo. 


JULIUS. 
Only to build more grandly. 


752 


——— 


CARDINAL MARCELLO. 
But time passes ; 
Year after year goes by, and yet 
the work 
Is not completed. 
gelo 
Is a great sculptor, but no archi- 
tect. 
His plans are faulty. 


Michael An- 


JULIUS. 
I have seen his model, 
And have approved it. But here 
comes the artist. 
Beware of him. He may make 
Persians of you, 
To carry burdens on your backs 
forever. go 


SCENE II. — The same: MICHAEL 
ANGELO. 


JULIUS. 


Come forward, dear Maestro. In 
these gardens 

All ceremonies of our court are 
banished. 

Sit down beside me here. 


MICHAEL ANGELO, sitting down. 
How graciously 
Your Holiness commiserates old 
age 
And its infirmities! 


JULIUS. 
Say its privileges. 

Art I respect. The building of 
this palace 

And laying out of these pleasant 
garden walks 

Are my delight, and if I have not 
asked 

Your aid in this, it is that I for- 
bear 

To lay new burdens on you at an 
age 100 

When you need rest. Here I es- 
cape from Rome 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





To be at peace. The tumult of 
the city 


Scarce reaches here. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


How beautiful it is, 
And quiet almost as a hermitage! 


JULIUS. 


We live as hermits here; and from 
these heights 

O’erlook all Rome and see the 
yellow Tiber 

Cleaving in twain the city, like a 
sword, 

As far below there as St. Mary’g 
bridge. 

What think you of that bridge ? 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
I would advise 
Your Holiness not to cross it, or 
not often; 110 
It is not safe. 


JULIUS. 
It was repaired of late. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Some morning you will look for it 
in vain; 

It will be gone. 
the river 

Is undermining it. 


The current of 


JULIUS. 
But you repaired it. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


I strengthened all its piers, and 
paved its road 

With travertine. He who came 
after me 

Removed the stone and sold it, 
and filled in 

The space with gravel. 


JULIUS. 
Cardinal Salviati 
And Cardinal Marcello, do you 
listen ? 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


753 





This is your famous Nanni Baccio 
Bigio. 120 


MICHAEL ANGELO, aside. 


There is some mystery here. These 
Cardinals 

Stand lowering at me with un- 
friendly eyes. 


JULIUS. 


Now let us come to what concerns 
us more 

Than bridge or gardens. 
complaints are made 

Concerning the Three Chapels in 
St. Peter’s ; 

Certain supposed defects or im- 
perfections, 

You doubtless can explain. 


Some 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
This is no longer 


The golden age of art. Men have 
become 

[conoclasts and critics. They de- 
light not 

In what an artist does, but set 
themselves 130 

To censure what they do not com- 
prehend. 

You will not see them bearing a 
Madonna 

Of Cimabue to the church in 
triumph, 

But tearing down the statue of a 
Pope 

To cast it into cannon. Who are 
they 

That bring complaints against 
me? 

JULIUS. 
Deputies 

Of the Commissioners; and they 
complain 

Of insufficient light in the Three 
Chapels. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Your Holiness, the insufficient 
light 


Is somewhere else, and not in the 
Three Chapels. 140 

Who are the deputies that make 
complaint ? 


‘JULIUS. 


The Cardinals Salviati and Mar: 
cello, 
Here present. 


MICHAEL ANGELO, rising. 


With permission, Monsignori, 
What is it ye complain of ? 


CARDINAL MARCELLO. 
We regret 
You have departed from Bra- 
mante’s plan, 
And from San Gallo’s. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Since the ancient time 
No greater architect has lived on 


earth 

Than Lazzari Bramante. His de- 
sign, 

Without confusion, simple, clear, 
well-lighted, 

Merits all praise, and to depart 
from it 150 


Would be departing from the 
truth. San Gallo, 

Building about with columns, took 
all light 

Out of this plan; left in the choir 
dark corners 

For infinite ribaldries, and lurking 
places 

For rogues and robbers; so that 
when the church 

Was shut at night, not five and 
twenty men 

Could find them out. It was San 
Gallo then, 

That left the church in darkness, 
and not I. 


CARDINAL MARCELLO. 
Excuse me; but in each of the 
Three Chapels 
Is but a single window. 


754 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


SA SS 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Monsignore, 
Perhaps you do not know that in 
the vaulting 161 
Above there are to go three other 
windows. 


CARDINAL SALVIATI. 


How should we know? You never 
told us of it. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


I neither am obliged, nor will I be, 

To tell your Eminence or any 
other 

What I intend or ought to do. 
Your office 

Is to provide the means, and see 
that thieves 

Do not lay hands uponthem. The 
designs 

Must all be left to me. 


CARDINAL MARCELLO. 


Sir architect, 
You do forget yourself, to speak 
thus rudely 170 
In presence of his Holiness, and 
to us 
Whorare his Cardinals. 


MICHAEL ANGELO, putting on his 
hat. 


I do not forget 
I am descended from the Counts 
Canossa, 
Linked with the Imperial line, and 
- with Matilda, 


Who gave the Church Saint Peter’s | 


Patrimony. 

I, too, am proud to give unto the 
Chureh 

The labor of these hands, and what 
of life 

Remains to me. My father Buo- 
narotti 

Was Podesta of Chiusi and Ca- 
prese. 

Iam not used to have men speak 
to me 180 


As if I were a mason, hired ta 
build 
A garden wall, and paid on Satur. 
‘days 
So much an hour. 


CARDINAL SALVIATI, aside. 


No wonder that Pope Clement 
Never sat down in presence of this 
man, 
Lest he should do the same; and 
always bade him 
Put on his hat, lest he unasked 
should do it! 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 

If any one could die of grief and 
shame, 

I should. This labor was imposed 


upon me; 

I did not seek it; and if Iassumed 
it, 

’T was not for love of fame or love 
of gain, 190 

But for the love of God. Perhaps 
old age 

Deceived me, or self-interest, or 
ambition; 

I may be doing harm instead of 
good. 

Therefore, I pray your Holiness, 
release me; 

Take off from me the burden of 
this work; 


Let me go back to Florence. 


JULIUS. 


Never, never, 
While I am living. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Doth your Holiness 
Remember what the Holy Scrip- 
tures say 
Of the inevitable time, when thos¢ 
Who look out of the windows shal 
be darkened, 20 
And the almond-tree shall flour 
ish? 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


755 





JULIUS. 
That is in 
Ecclesiastes. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
And the grasshopper 
Shall be a burden, and desire shall 
fail, 
Because man goeth unto his long 
home. 
Vanity of Vanities, 
Preacher ; all 
Is vanity. 


saith the 


JULIUS. 


Ah, were to do a thing 
As easy as to dream of doing it, 
We should not want for artists. 
But the men 
Who carry out in act their great 
designs 
Are few in number; aye, they may 
be counted 210 
Upon the fingers of this hand. 
Your place 
Is at St. Peter’s. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


I have had my dream, 
And cannot carry out my great 
conception, 
And put it into act. 


JULIUS. 


Then who can do it? 
You would but leave it to some 
Baccio Bigio 
To mangle and deface. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Rather than that, 
I will still bear the burden on my 
shoulders 
A little longer. If your Holiness 
Will keep the world in order, and 


will leave 

The building of the church to me, 
the work 220 

Will go on better for it. Holy 
Father, 

If all the labors that I have en- 
dured, 


And shall endure, advantage not 
my soul, 
Iam but losing time. 


JULIUS, laying his hands on 
MICHAEL ANGELO’S shoulders. 


You will be gainer 
Both for your soul and body. 
MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Not events 
Exasperate me, but the funest con- 


clusions 2 

I draw from these events; the sure 
decline ~ 

Of art, and all the meaning of that 
word ; 

All that embellishes and sweetens 
life, 

And lifts it from the level of low 
cares 230 

Into the purer atmosphere of 
beauty ; 

The faith in the Ideal; the inspira- 
tion 


That made the canons of the 
church of Seville 

Say, ‘Let us build, so that all men 
hereafter 

Will say that we were madmen.' 
Holy Father, 

I beg permission to retire from 


here. 
JULIUS. 
Go; and my benediction be upon 
you. 


SCENE III.— POPE JULIUS and 
the CARDINALS. 


JULIUS, 


My Cardinals, this Michael Angela 

Must not be dealt with as a com- 
mon mason. 

He comes of noble blood, and for 
his crest 240 

Bears two bull’s horns: and he has 
given us proof 

That he ean toss with them. From 
this day forth 


756 





Unto the end of time, let no man 
utter 

The name of Baccio Bigio in my 
presence. 

All great achievements are the 
natural fruits 


Of a great character. As trees 
bear not 

Their fruits of the same size and 
quality, 

But each one in its kind with equal 
ease, 

So are great deeds as natural to 
great men 


As mean things are to small ones. 
By his work 250 

We know the master. Let us not 
perplex him. 


III 


BINDO ALTOVITI 


A street in Rome. BINDO AULTO- 
VITI, standing at the door of 


his house. MICHAEL ANGELO, 
passing. 
BINDO. 
Good-morning, Messer Michael 
Angelo! 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Good-morning, Messer Bindo Al- 
toviti! 
BINDO. 
What brings you forth so early ? 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


The same reason 
That keeps you standing sentinel 
at your door, — 
The air of this delicious summer 
morning. 
What news have you from Flor- 
ence? 


BINDO. 
Nothing new; 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





The same old tale of violence and 
wrong. 

Since the disastrous day at Monte 
Murlo, 

When in procession, through San 
Gallo’s gate, 260 

Bareheaded, clothed in rags, on . 
sorry steeds, 

Philippo Strozzi and the good Va- 
lori 

Amid the shouts of an ungrateful 
people 

Were led as prisoners down the 
streets of Florence, 

Hope is no more, and liberty no 
more. 

Duke Cosimo, the tyrant, reigns 
supreme. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Florence is dead: her houses are 
but tombs; 
Silence and solitude are in her 


streets. 
BINDO- 

Ah yes; and often I repeat the 
words 

You wrote upon your statue of the 
Night, 270 

There in the Sacristy of San Lo- 
renzo: 

‘Grateful to me is sleep; to be of 
stone 


More grateful, while the wrong 
and shame endure; 

To see not, feel not, is a benedic- 
tion; 

Therefore awake me not; oh, speak 
in whispers.’ 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Ah, Messer Bindo, the calami- 
ties, 

The fallen fortunes, and the deso- 
lation 

Of Florence are to me a tragedy 

Deeper than words, and darker 
than despair. 

I, who have worshipped freedom 
from my cradle, 280 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


757 





Have loved her with the passion of 
a lover, 

And clothed her with all lovely 
attributes 

That the imagination can con- 
ceive, 

Or the heart conjure up, now see 
her dead, 

And trodden in the dust beneath 
the feet 

Of an adventurer! It is a grief 

Too great for me to bear in my old 
age. 


BINDO. 


I say no news from Florence: I 
am wrong, 

For Benvenuto writes that he is 
coming 

To be my guest in Rome. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Those are good tidings. 
He hath been many years away 
from us. 291 


BINDO. 
Pray you, come in. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


I have not time to stay, 

And yet I will. I see from here 
your house 

Is filled with works of art. That 
bust in bronze 

Is of yourself. Tell me, whois the 
master 

That works in such an admirable 
way, 

And with such power and feeling? 


BINDO. 
Benvenuto. 


MICHAEL ANGELO, 


Ah? Benvenuto? ’T is a master- 
piece! 

It pleases me as much, and even 
more, 

Than the antiques about it; and 
yet they 300 


Are of the best one sees. 
have placed it 

By far too high. The light comes 
from below, 

And injures the expression. Were 
these windows 

Above and not beneath it, then in- 
deed 

It would maintain its own among 
these works 

Of the old masters, noble as they 
are. 

I will go in and study it more 
closely. 

I always prophesied that Benve- 
nuto, 

With all his follies and fantastic 
ways, 

Would show his genius in some 
work of art 310 

That would amaze the world, and 
be a challenge 

Unto all other artists of his time. 

[They goin. 


But you 


IV 
IN THE COLISEUM 


MICHAEL ANGELO and TOMASO 
DE’ CAVALIERI, 


CAVALIERI. 


What do you here alone, Messer 
Michele? 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
I come to learn. 


CAVALIERI. 


You are already master, 
And teach all other men. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Nay, I know nothing ; 
Not even my Own ignorance, as 
some 
Philosopher hath said. 
school-boy 
Who hath not learned his Jesson, 
and who stands 


I am 2 


758 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





Ashamed and silent in the awful | And to the constellations that at 


* presence 

Of the great master of anti- 
quity 320 

Who built these walls cyclopean. 


CAVALIERI. 


Gaudentius 
His name was,I remember. His 
reward 
Was to be thrown alive to the wild 
beasts 
Here where we now are stand- 
ing. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Idle tales. 


CAVALIERI. 


But you are greater than Gauden- 
tius was, 
And your work nobler. 


‘MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Silence, I beseech you. 


CAVALIERI. 


Tradition says that fifteen thou- 
sand men 

Were toiling for ten years inces- 
santly 

Upon this amphitheatre. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Behold 

How wonderful it is! —The queen 
of flowers, 330 

The marble rose of Rome! Its 


petals torn 

By wind and rain of thrice five 
hundred years ; 

Its mossy sheath half rent away, 
and sold 

To ornament our palaces and 
churches, 

Or to be trodden under feet of 
man 

Upon the Tiber’s bank; yet what 
remains 

Still opening its fair bosom to the 
sun, 


night 
Hang poised above it like a swarm 
of bees. 
CAVALIERI. 
The rose of Rome, but not of Para- 
dise ; 3490 
Not the white rose our Tuscan 
poet saw, 
With saints for petals. When this 


rose was perfect 

Its hundred thousand petals were 
not saints, 

But senators in their Thessalian 
caps, 

And all the roaring populace of 
Rome ; 

And even an Empress and the 
Vestal Virgins, 

Who came to see the gladiators 
die, 

Could not give sweetness to a rose 
like this. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
I spake not of its uses, but its 


beauty. 
CAVALIERI. 
The sand beneath our feet is satu 
rate 3590 


With blood of martyrs; and these 
rifted stones 

Are awful witnesses against a peo- 
ple 

Whose pleasure was the pain of 
dying men. 


MICHA EI ANGELO. 


Tomaso Cavalieri, on my word, 

You should have been a preacher, 
not a painter! 

Think you that I approve such 
cruelties, 

Because I marvel at the archi- 
tects 

Who built these walls, and curved 
these noble arches ? 

Oh, I am put to shame, when J 
consider 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


759 





How mean our work is, when com- 


pared with theirs ! 360 

Look at these walls about us and 
above us! x 

They have been shaken by earth- 
quakes, have been made 

A fortress, and been battered by 
long sieges; 

The iron clamps, that held the 
stones together, 

Have been wrenched from them; 
but they stand erect 

And firm, as if they had been hewn 
and hollowed 

Out of the solid rock, and were a 
part 

Of the foundations of the world 
itself, 


CAVALIERI. 


Your work, [ say again, is nobler 
work, 

In so faras itsend and aim are 
nobler; 370 

And this is but a ruin, like the 
rest. 

Its vaulted passages are made the 
caverns 

Of robbers, and are haunted by 
the ghosts 

Of murdered men. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
A thousand wild flowers bloom 
From every chink, and the birds 
build their nests 


Among the ruined arches, and 
suggest 

New thoughts of beauty to the 
architect. 


Now let us climb the broken stairs 
that lead 

Into the corridors above, and study 

The marvel and the mystery of 


that art 380 
In which I am a pupil, not a mas- 
ter. 


All things must have an end; the 
world itself 


Must have an end, as in a dream I 
Saw it, 

There came a great hand out of 
heaven, and touched 

The earth, and stopped it in its 
course. The seas 

Leaped, a vast cataract, into the 
abyss ; 

The forests and the fields slid off, 
and floated 

Like wooded islands in the air. 
The dead 

Were hurled forth from their se- 
pulchres; the living 

Were mingled with them, and 
themselves were dead, — 390 

All being dead; and the fair, shin- 
ing cities 

Dropped out like jewels from a 
broken crown. 

Naught but the core of, the great 
globe remained, 

A skeleton of stone. And over it 

The wrack of matter drifted like a 
cloud, 

And then recoiled upon itself, and 
fell 

Back on the empty world, that 
with the weight 

Reeled, staggered, righted, and 
then headlong plunged 

Into the darkness, as a ship, when 
struck 

By a great sea,throws off the 
waves at first 400 

On either side, then settles and 
goes down 

Intothe dark abyss, with her dead 
crew. 


CAVALIERI. 
But the earth does not move. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Who knows? who knows? 
There are great truths that pitch 
their shining tents 
Outside our walls, and though but 
dimly seen 
In the gray dawn, they will b®@ 
manifest 


760 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





When the light widens into perfect 
day. 

A certain man, Copernicus by 
name, 

Sometime professor here in Rome, 
has whispered 

Itis the earth, and not the sun, 


that moves. 410 

What I beheld was only in a 
dream, 

Yet dreams sometimes anticipate 
events, 

Being unsubstantial images of 
things 


As yet unseen. 


Vv 
MACELLO DE’ CORVI 


MICHAEL ANGELO, BENVENUTO 
CELLINI. 
MICHAEL ANGELO. 


So, Benvenuto, you return once 
more 


To the Eternal City. °Tis the cen- 
tre 

To which all gravitates. One finds 
no rest 

Elsewhere than here. There may | 
be other cities 


That please us for a while, but 
Rome alone 


Completely satisfies. It becomes 
to all 420 

A second native land by predilec- 
tion, 


And not by accident of birth alone. 


BENVENUTO, 


I am but just arrived, and am now 
lodging 

With Bindo Altoviti. I have been 

To kiss the feet of our most Holy 
Father, 

And now am come in haste to kiss 
the hands 

Of my miraculous Master. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
And to find him 
Grown very old. 


BENVENUTO. 
You know that precious stones 
Never grow old. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Half sunk beneath the horizon, 
And yet not gone. Twelve years 
are a long while. 430 

Tell me of France. 


BENVENUTO. 


It were too long a tale 

To tell you all. Suffice in brief to 
say 

The King received me well, and 
loved me well; 

Gave me the annual pension that 
before me 

Our Leonardo had, nor more nor 
less, 

And for my residence the Tour de 
Nesle, 

Upon the river-side. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
A princely lodging. 


BENVENUTO. 


What in return I did now matters 
not, 

For there are other things, of 
greater moment, 

I wish to speak of. First of all, 
the letter 440 

You wrote me, not long since, 
about my bust 

Of Bindo Altoviti, here in Rome. 
You said, 

‘My Benvenuto, I for many years 

Have known you as the greatest 
of all goldsmiths, 

And now I know you as no less a 
sculptor.’ 

Ah, generous Master! 
IT e’er thank you 

For such kind language? 


How shall 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


761 





MICHAEL ANGELO. 
By believing it. 
I saw the bust at Messer Bindo’s 
house, 
And thought it worthy of the an- 
cient masters, 
And said so. That is all. 


BENVENUTO. 


It is too much; 
And I should stand abashed here 
in your presence, 451 
Had I done nothing worthier of 
your praise 
Than Bindo’s bust. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
What have you done that’s better? 


BENVENUTO. 

When I left Rome for Paris, you 
remember 

I promised you that if I went a 
goldsmith 

I would return a sculptor. 
kept 

The promise I then made. 


I have 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Dear Benvenuto, 
I recognized the latent genius in 
you, 
But feared your vices. 


BENVENUTO. 


I have turned them all 
To virtues. My impatient, way- 
. ward nature, 460 
That made me quick in quarrel, 
now has served me 
Where meekness could not, and 
where patience could not, 
As you shall hear now. I have 
east in bronze 
A statue of Perseus, holding thus 
aloft 
In his left hand the head of the 
Medusa, 
And in his right the sword that 
severed it ; 


His right foot planted on the life- 
less corse; 

His face superb and pitiful, with 
eyes 

Down-looking on the victim of his 
vengeance. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
I see it as it should be. 


BENVENUTO. 


As it will be 
When it is placed upon the Ducal 
Square, 471 
Half-way between your David and 
the Judith 
Of Donatello. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Rival of them both! 


BENVENUTO. 


But ah, what infinite trouble have 
I had 

With Bandinello, ana that stupid 
beast, 

The major-domo of Duke Cosimo, 

Francesco Ricci, and _ their 
wretched agent 

Gorini, who came crawling round 
about me 

Like a black spider, with his whin- 
ing voice 

That sounded like the buzz of a 


mosquito! 480 
Oh, I have wept in utter despera- 
tion, 


And wished a thousand times I 
had not left 

My Tour de Nesle, nor e’er re- 
turned to Florence, 

Nor thought of Perseus. 
malignant falsehoods 

They told the Grand Duke, to im- 
pede my work, 

And make me desperate ! 


What 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


The nimble lie 
Is like the second-hand upon a 
clock ; 


762 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





We sce it fly, while the hour-hand 
of truth 

Seems to stand still, and yet it 
moves unseen, 

And wins at last, for the clock will 
not strike 490 

Till it has reached the goal. 


BENVENUTO. 


My obstinacy 
Stood me in stead, and helped me 
to o’erceme 
The hindrances that envy and ill- 
will 
Put in my way. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


When anything is done 
People see not the patient doing 


of it, 

Nor think how great would be the 
loss to man 

If it had not been done. AS in a 
building 


Stone rests on stone, and wanting 
the foundation 

All would be wanting, so in human 
life 

Each action rests on the foregone 
event, 500 

That made it possible, but is for- 
gotten 

And buried in the earth. 


BENVENUTO. 


Even Bandinello, 

Who never yet spake well of any- 
thing, 

Speaks well of this; and yet he 
told the Duke 

That, though I cast small figures 
well enough, 

I never could cast this. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


But you have done it, 
And proved Ser Bandinello a false 
prophet. 
That is the wisest way. 


BENVENUTO. 
And ah, that casting! 


What a wild scene it was, as late 
at night, 

A night of wind and rain, we 
heaped the furnace 510 

With pine of Serristori, till the 


flames 

Caught in the rafters over us, and 
threatened 

To send the burning roof upon our 
heads ; 

And from the garden side the wind 
and rain 

Poured in upon us, and half 


quenched our fires. 

I was beside myself with despera- 
tion. 

A shudder came upon me, then a 
fever; 

I thought that I was dying, and 
was forced 

To leave the work-shop, and to 
throw myself 

Upon my bed, as one who has no 


hope. 520 
And as I lay there, a deformed ol 
man 


Appeared before me, and with dis- 
mal voice, 

Like one who doth exhort a crimi- 
nal 

Led forth to death, exclaimed, 
‘Poor Benvenuto, 

Thy work is spoiled! There is no 
remedy !’ 

Then with a ery so loud it might 
have reached 

The heaven of fire, I bounded to 
my feet, 

And rushed back to my workmen. 
They all stood 

Bewildered and desponding; and 


I looked 

Into the furnace, and beheld the 
mass 5390 

Half molten only, and in my de- 
spair 

I fed the fire with oak, whose terri 
ble heat 


Soon made the sluggish metai 
shine and sparkle. 

Then followed a bright flash, and 
an explosion, 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





As if a thunderbolt had fallen 
among us. 

The covering of the furnace had 
been rent 

Asunder, and the bronze was flow- 
ing Over ; 

So that I straightway opened all 
the sluices 

To fillthe mould. The metal ran 
like lava, 

Sluggish and heavy; and I sent 
my workmen 540 

To ransack the whole house, and 
bring together 

My pewter plates and pans, two 
hundred of them, 

And cast them one by one into the 


furnace 

To liquefy the mass, and in a mo- 
ment 

The mould was filled! I fell upon 
my knees 


And thanked the Lord; and then 
we ate and drank 

And went to bed, all hearty and 
contented. 

It was two hours before the break 
of day. 

My fever was quite gone, ~ 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


A strange adventure, 
That could have happened to no 
man alive 550 

But you, my Benvenuto. 


BENVENUTO. 


As my workmen said 


To major-domo Ricci afterward 

When he inquired of them: 
‘°T was not a man, 

But an express great devil.’ 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
And the statue ? 


BENVENUTO. 


Perfect in every part, save the 
right foot 

Of Perseus, as I had foretold the 
Duke. 





763 





There was just bronze enough to 
fill the mould; 

Not a drop over, not a drop too 
little. 

I looked upon it as a miracle 

Wrought by the hand of God. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


And now I see 
How you have turned your vices 


into virtues. 561 
BENVENUTO. 
But wherefore do I prate of this? 
I came 
To speak of other things. Duke 
Cosimo 


Through me invites you to return 
to Florence, 

And offers you great honors, even 
to make you 

One of the Forty-Eight, his Sena- 
tors. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


His Senators! That is enough. 
Since Florence 

Was changed by Clement ‘Seventh 
from a Republic 

Into a Dukedom, I no longer wish 

To be a Florentine. That dream 
is ended. 570 

The Grand Duke Cosimo now 
reigns supreme; 

Allliberty isdead. Ah, woeisme! 

I hoped to see my country rise to 


heights 

Of happiness and freedom yet un- 
reached 

By other nations, but the climbing 
wave 

Pauses, lets go its hold, and slides 
again 

Back to the common level, with a 
hoarse 

Death-rattle in its throat. I am 
too old 

To hope for better days. I will © 
stay here 


And die in Rome, The very weeds, 
that grow 58e 


764 


Among the broken fragments of | And with such subtle and infernal 


her ruins, 

Are sweeter to me than the eae 
flowers 

Of other cities; and the desolate 
ring 

Of the Campagna round about her 
walls 

Fairer than all the villas that en- 
circle 

The towns of Tuscany. 


BENVENUTO. 
But your old friends! 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


All dead by violence. Baccio Va- 
lori 

Has been beheaded; Guicciardini 
poisoned ; 

Philippo Strozzi strangled in his 
prison. 

Is Florence then a place for et 
est men 

To flourish in? What is tie: 5 
prevent 

My sharing the same fate? 


BENVENUTO. 
Why, this: if all 
Your friends are dead, so are your 
enemies. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Is Aretino dead? 


BENVENUTO. 


He lives in Venice, 
And not in Florence. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


’T is the same to me. 

This wretched mountebank, whom 
flatterers 

Call the Divine, as if to make the 
word 

Unpleasant in the mouths of those 
who speak it 

And in the ears of those who hear 
it, sends me 

A letter written for the public eye, 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


ee 


malice, 601 

I wonder at his wickedness. ’T is 
he 

Is the express great devil, and not 
you. 

Some years ago he told me how to 
paint 


The scenes of the Last Judgment. 


BENVENUTO. 
I remember. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Well, now he writes to me that, as 
a Christian, 

He is ashamed of the unbounded 
freedom 

With which I represent it. 


BENVENUTO. 
Hypocrite! 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


He says I show mankind that I 
am wanting 

In piety and religion, in proportion 

As I profess perfection in my art. 

Profess perfection? Why, ’tis 
only men 612 

Like Bugiardini who are satisfied 

With what they do. I never am 
content, 

But always see the labor of my 
hand 

Fall short of my conception. 


BENVENUTO. 
I perceive 
The malice of this creature. He 
would taint you 
With heresy, and in a time like 
this! 
’T is infamous! 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


I represent the angels 
Without their heavenly glory, and 


the saints 620 
Without a trace of earthly mod 
esty. 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


765 





BENVENUTO. 
Incredible audacity! 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
The heathen 
Veiled their Diana with some 
drapery, 
And when they represented Venus 
naked 
They made her by her modest at- 
titude 
Appear half clothed. But I, who 
am a Christian, 
Do so subordinate belief to art 
That I have made the very viola- 
tion 
Of modesty in martyrs and in vir- 
gins 
A spectacle at which all men 
would gaze 630 
With half-averted eyes even in a 
brothel. 


BENVENUTO. 


He is at home there, and he ought 
to know 

What men avert their eyes from in 
such places ; 

From the Last Judgment chiefly, I 
imagine. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


But divine Providence will never 
leave 

The boldness of my marvellous 
work unpunished ; 

And the more marvellous it is, the 
more 

’T is sure to prove the ruin of my 
fame! 

And finally, if in this composition 

I had pursued the instructions 
that he gave me 640 

Concerning heaven and hell and 
paradise, 

In that same letter, known to all 
the world, 

Nature would not be forced, as 
she is now, 

To feel ashamed that she invested 
me 


With such great talent; that I 
stand myself 

A very idol in the world of art. 

He taunts me also with the Mau- 
soleum 

Of Julius, still unfinished, for the 
reason 

That men persuaded the inane old 
man 

It was of evil augury to build 

His tomb while he was living; and 
he speaks 651 

Of heaps of gold this Pope be- 
queathed to me, 

And ealls it robbery ;— that is 
what he says. 

What prompted such a letter? 


BENVENUTO. 


Vanity. 

He is a clever writer, and he likes 

To draw his pen, and flourish it in 

the face 

Of every honest man, as swords- 
men do 

Their rapiers on occasion, but to 
show 

How skilfully they do it. 
you followed 

The advice he gave, or even 
thanked him for it, 660 

You would have seen another style 
of fence. 

*T is but his wounded vanity, and 
the wish 

To see his name in print. So give 
it not 

A moment’s thought; it will soon 
be forgotten. 


Had 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
I will not think of it, but let it 
pass 
For a rude speech thrown at me 
in the street, 
As boys threw stones at Dante, 


BENVENUTO. 


‘ And what answer 
Shall I take back to Grand Duke 
Cosimo ? 


766 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





He does not ask your labor or your 
service ; 

Only your presence in the city of 
Florence, 670 

With such advice upon his work in 
hand 

As he may ask, and you may 
choose to give. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


You have my answer. Nothing he 
can offer 

Shall tempt me to leave Rome. My 
work is here, 

And only here, the building of St. 
Peter's. 

What other things I hitherto have 
done 

Have fallen from me, are no longer 
mine ; 

I have passed on beyond them, and 
have left them 

As milestones on the way. What 
lies before me, 

That is still mine, and while it is 
unfinished 680 

No one shall draw me from it, or 
persuade me, 

By promises of ease, or wealth, 
or honor, 

' Till I behold the finished dome up- 
rise 

Complete, as now I see it in my 
thought. 


BENVENUTO, 
And will you paint no more? 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
No more. 


BENVENUTO. 


*T is well. 
Sculpture is more divine, and more 
like Nature, , 
That fashions all her works in 
high relief, 
And that is sculpture. 
ball, the Earth, 
Was moulded out of clay, and 
baked in fire; 


This vast 


Men, women, and all animals that 
breathe 690 

Are statues and not paintings, 
Even the plants, 


The flowers, the fruits, the 
grasses, were first sculp- 
tured, 

And colored later, Painting is a 
lie, 


A shadow merely. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Truly, as you say, 

Sculpture is more than painting. 
It is greater 

To raise the dead to life than to 
create 

Phantoms that seem to live. 
most majestic 

Of the three sister arts is that 
which builds; 

The eldest of them all, to whom 
the others 

Are but the handmaids and the 
servitors, 700 

Being but imitation, not crea- 
tion. 

Henceforth I dedicate myseif to 
her. 


The 


BENVENUTO. 


And no more from the marble hew 
those forms 
That fill us all with wonder ? 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Many statues 
Will there be room for in my 
work. Their station 
Already is assigned them in my 
mind. 
But thivgs move slowly. 
are hindrances, 
Want of material, want of means, 
delays . 

And interruptions, endless inter- 
ference 

Of Cardinal Commissioners, and 
disputes 710 

And jealousies of artists, that an 
noy me. 


There 


MICHAEL 


ANGELO 767 





But I will persevere until the 
work 

Is wholly finished, or till I sink 
down 

Surprised by Death, that unex- 
pected guest, 

Who waits for no man’s leisure, 
but steps in, 

Unasked and unannounced, to put 
a stop 

To all our occupations and de- 
signs. 

And then perhaps I may go back 
to Florence; 

This is my answer to Duke Co- 
simo. 


VI 
MICHAEL ANGELO’S STUDIO 


MICHAEL ANGELO and URBINO. 


MICHAEL ANGELO, pausing in his 
work, 
Urbino, thou and I are both old 
men, 720 
My strength begins to fail me. 


URBINO. 


Eccellenza, 
That is impossible. Do I not see 
you 
Attack the marble blocks with the 
same fury 


As twenty years ago? 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


’T is an old, old habit. 

I rnust have learned it early from 
my nurse 

At Setignano, the stone-mason’s 
wife ; 

For the first sounds I heard were 
of the chisel 

Chipping away the stone. 


URBINO. 


At every stroke 
' You strike fire with your chisel. _ 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Aye, because 
The marble is too hard. 


URBINO. 
It is a block 
That Topolino sent you from Car- 
rara. 730 
He is a judge of marble. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


I remember. 

With it he sent me something of 
his making, — 

A Mercury, with long body and 
short legs, 

AS if by any possibility 

A messenger of the gods could 
have short legs. 

It was no more like Mercury than 


you are, 

But rather like those little plaster 
figures 

That peddlers hawk about the 
villages 

As images of saints. But luck- 
Aly ay 740 

For Topolino, there are many peo- 
ple 


Who see no difference between 
what is best 

And whaitis only good, or not even 
good ; 

So that poor artists stand in their 
esteem 

On the same level with the best, 
or higher. 


URBINO. 
How Eccellenza laughed! 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Poor Topolino! 
All men are not born artists, nor 
will labor 
EH’er make them artists. 


URBINO. 


No, no more 
Than Emperors, or Popes, or Car- 
dinals. 


768 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


TY 


One must be chosen for it. I have 
been 750 

Your color-grinder six and twenty 
years, . 

And am not yet an artist. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Some have eyes 

That see not; but in every block 
of marble 

I see a statue,—see it as dis- 
tinctly 

As if it stood before me shaped 

‘and perfect 

In attitude and action. I have 
only 

To hew away the stone walls that 
imprison 

The lovely apparition, and reveal 
it 

To other eyes as mine already see 
it. 

But I grow old and weak. What 
wilt thou do 760 

When I am dead, Urbino ? 


URBINO. 


Eccellenza, 
I must then serve another master. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Never ! 

Bitter is servitude at best. Al- 
ready 

So many years hast thou been 
serving me; 

But rather as a friend than as a 
servant. 

We have grown old together. 
Dost thou think 

So meanly of this Michael Ange- 
lo 

As to imagine he would let thee 
serve, 

When he is free from service? 
Take this purse, 

Two thousand crowns in gold. 


URBINO. 
Two thousand crowns! 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Ay, it will make thee rich. Thou 
shalt not die 771 
A beggar in a hospital. 


URBINO. 
Oh, Master 


MICHAE ie ANGELO. 


I cannot have them with me on 
the journey 

That Iam undertaking. The last 
garment 


‘That men will make for me will 


have no pockets. 


URBINO, kissing the hand of 
MICHAEL ANGELO. 


My generous master! 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Hush! 


URBINO. 
My Providence! 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Not a word more. Go now to bed, 
old man. 

Thou hast served Michael Angelo. 
Remember, 

Henceforward thou shalt serve no 
other master. 


VII 
THE OAKS OF MONTE LUCA 


MICHAEL ANGELO, alone in the 
woods. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


How still it is among these an. 
cient oaks! 780 

Surges and undulations of the air 

Uplift the leafy boughs, and let 
them fall 

With scarce a sound. Such sylvan 
quietudes 


MICHAEL ANGELO 


769 





Become old age. These huge cen- 
tennial oaks, 

That may have heard in infancy 
the trumpets 

Of Barbarossa’s cavalry, deride 

Man’s brief existence, that with all 
his strength 

He cannot stretch beyond the 
hundredth year. 

This little acorn, turbaned like the 
Turk, 

Which with my feet. I spurn, may 
be an oak 790 

Hereafter, feeding with its bitter 
mast 

The fierce wild-boar, and tossing 
in its arms 

The cradled nests of birds, when 
all the men 

That now inhabit this vast uni- 
verse, 

They and their children, and their 
children’s children, > 

Shall be but dust and mould, and 
nothing more. 

Through openings in the trees I 
see below me 

The valley of Clitumnus, with its 

farms 

And snow-white oxen grazing in 
the shade 

Of the tall poplars on the river’s 
brink. 800 

O Nature, gentle mother, tender 
nurse! 

I, who have never loved thee as L 
ought, 

But wasted all my years immured 
in cities, 

And breathed the stifling atmo- 
sphere of streets, 

“Now come to thee for refuge. 
Here is peace. 

Yonder I see the little hermitages 

Dotting the mountain side with 
points of light, 

And here St. Julian’s convent, like 
a nest 

Df curlews, clinging to some windy 
cliff. 

Beyond the broad, illimitable plain 


Down sinks the sun, red as Apollo’s 


quoit, Sir 
That, by the envious Zephyr blown 
aside, 
Struck Hyacinthus dead, and 


stained the earth 

With his young blood, that blos- 
somed into flowers. 

And now, instead of these fair dei- 
ties, 

Dread demons haunt the earth; 
hermits inhabit 

The leafy homes of sylvan Hama- 
dryads ; 

And jovial friars, rotund and ru- 
bicund, 

Replace the old Silenus with his 
ass. 


Here underneath these venerable 
oaks, 820 

Wrinkled and brown and gnarled 
like them with age, 

A brother of the monastery sits, 

Lost in his meditations. What 
may be 

The questions that perplex, the 
hopes that cheer him ?— 

Good-evening, holy father. 


MONK. 
God be with you. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Pardon a stranger if he interrupt 
Your meditations. 


MONK. 


It was but a dream. — 
The old, old dream, that never will 
come true; 
The dream that all my life I have 
been dreaming, 
And yet is still a dream. 


MICHAEL ANGELO, 


All men have dreams. 

IT have had mine ; but none of them 

came true; 831 

They were but vanity. Sometimes 
I think 


77° 


MICHAEL 


ANGELO 





The happiness of man lies in pur- 
suing, 

Not in possessing; for the things 
possessed 

Lose half their value. 
your dream. 


Tell me of 


MONK. 

The yearning of my heart, my sole 
desire, 

That like the sheaf of Joseph 
stands upright, 

While all the others bend and bow 
to it; 

The passion that torments me, and 
that breathes 

New meaning into the dead forms 
of prayer, 840 

Is that with mortal eyes I may be- 
hold 

The Eternal City. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Rome? 


MONK. 
There is but one; 
The rest are merely names. I 
think of it 
As the Celestial City, paved with 
gold, 
And sentinelled with angels. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Would it were. 
I have just fled fromit. It is be- 
leaguered 
By Spanish troops, led by the 
Duke of Alva. 


MONK. 
But still for me *tis the Celestial 
City, 
And I would see it once before I 
die. 
MICHAEL ANGELO. 
Hach one must bear his cross. 


MONK. 
Were it a cross 


That had been laid upon me, I 
could bear it, 85x 

Or fall with it. It is a crucifix ; 

I am nailed hand and foot, and I 
am dying! 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
What would you see in Rome? 


MONK. 
His Holiness. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 

Him that was once the Cardinal 
Caraffa ? 

You would but see a man of four- 
score years, 

With sunken eyes, burning like 
carbunceles, 

Who sits at table with his friends 
for hours, 

Cursing the Spaniards as a race of 
Jews 

And miscreant Moors. And with 
what soldiery 860 

Think you he now defends the 
Eternal City ? 


MONK. 
With legions of bright angels. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
So he calls them; 
And yet in fact these bright an- 
gelic legions 
Are only German Lutherans. 
; MONK, crossing himself. 
Heaven protect us! 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
What further would you see? 


MONK. 


The Cardinals, 
Going in their gilt coaches to High 
Mass. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Men do not go to Paradise in 
coaches. 


~MICHAEL ANGELO 


771 





MONK. 
The catacombs, the convents, and 
the churches ; 
The ceremonies of the Holy Week 
In all their pomp, or, at the 
Epiphany, 870 
The feast of the Santissimo Bam- 
bino 
At Ara Ceeli. 
them. 


But I shall not see 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 

These pompous ceremonies of the 
Church 

Are but an empty show to him who 
knows 

The actors in them. Stay here in 
your convent, 

For he who goes to Rome may see 
too much. 

What would you further ? 


MONK. 


I would see the painting 
Of the Last Judgment in the Sis- 
tine Chapel. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


The smoke of incense and of altar 
candles 
Has blackened it already. 


MONK. 
Woe is me! 

Then I would hear Allegri’s Mis- 
erere, ' 880 


Sung by the Papal choir. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


A dismal dirge! 

I am an old, old man, and I have 
lived 

In Rome for thirty years and more, 
and know 

The jarring of the wheels of that 
great world, 

Its jealousies, its discords, and its 
strife. 

Therefore I say to you, remain 
content 

Here in your convent, here among 
your woods, 


Where only there is peace. Go not 
to Rome. 

There was of old a monk of Wit- 
tenberg 

Who went to Rome; you may have 
heard of him; 890 — 

His name was Luther; and you 
know what followed. 

[The convent bell rings. 


MONK, rising. 
It is the convent bell; it rings for 
vespers. 
Let us go in; we both will pray 
for peace. 


VIIl 
THE DEAD CHRIST 


MICHAEL ANGELO’S’ Studio. 
MICHAEL ANGELO with a light, 
working upon the Dead Christ. 
Midnight. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


O Death, why is it I cannot por- 
tray 

Thy form and features? Do I 
stand too near thee? 

Or dost thou hold my hand, and 
draw me back, 

As being thy disciple, not thy 
master? 

Let him who knows not what old 
age is like 

Have patience till it comes, and 
he will know. 

I once had skill to fashion Life and 
Death 900 

And Sleep, which is the counter- 
feit of Death; 

And I remember what Giovanni 
Strozzi 

Wrote underneath my statue of 
the Night 

In San Lorenzo, ah, so long ago! 

Grateful to me is sleep! More 
grateful now 

Thanit was then; for all my friends 
are dead; 


772 


And she is dead, the noblest of 
them all. 

I saw her face, when the great 
sculptor Death, 

~Whom men should call Divine, had 


at a blow 
Stricken her into marble; and I 
kissed gio 


Her cold white hand. What was 
it held me back 

From kissing her fair forehead, 
and those lips, 

Those dead, dumb lips? Grateful 
to me is sleep! 


Enter GIORGIO VASARL. 


GIORGIO. 


Good-evening, or good-morning, for 
I know not 
Which of the two it is. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
How came you in? 


GIORGIO, 
Why, by the door, as all men do. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Ascanio 
Must have forgotten to bolt it. 


GIORGIO. 
Probably. 
Am 1[ a spirit, or so like a spirit, 
That I could slip through bolted 
door or window? 
As I was passing down the street, 
I saw g20 
A glimmer of light, and heard the 
well-known chink 
Of chisel upon marble. 
tered, 
To see what keeps you from your 
bed so late. 


So I en- 


MICHAEL ANGELO, coming for- 
ward with the lamp. 

You have been revelling with your 
boon companions, 


MICHAEL ANGELO 





Giorgio Vasari, and you come to me 
At an untimely hour. 


GIORGIO. 


The Pope hath sent me. 
His Holiness desires to see again 
The drawing you once showed him 
of the dome 
Of the Basilica. 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 
We will look for it. 


GIORGIO. 


What is the marble group that 
glimmers there 930 
Behind you? 


MICHAEL ANGELO. 


Nothing, and yet everything, — 
As one may take it. It is my own 
tomb 
That I am building. 


GIORGIO. 


Do not hide it from me. 
By our long friendship and the love 
I bear you, 
Refuse me not! 


MICHAEL ANGELO, letting fall the 
lamp. 
Life hath become to me 

An empty theatre, — its lights ex- 
tinguished, 

The music silent, and the actors 
gone; 

And I alone sit musing on the 
scenes 

That once have been. 
that Death 

Oft plucks me by the cloak, to 
come with him; 940 

And some day, like this lamp, shall 
I fall down, 

And my last spark of life will be 


ITamsoold 


extinguished. 

Ah me! ah me! what darkness of 
despair! 

So near to death, and yet so far 
from God. 


el dl ee ell 


COPLAS DE MANRIQUE 793 


TRANSLATIONS 
PRELUDE Onward its course the present 
keeps, 
As treasures that men seek, Onward the constant current 
Deep buried in sea-sands, sweeps, 


Vanish if they but speak, 
And elude their eager hands, — 


So ye escape and slip, 
O songs, and fade away, 
When the word is on my lip 
To interpret what ye say. 


Were it not better, then, 
To let the treasures rest 
Hid from the eyes of men 
Locked in their iron chest ? 


I have but marked the place, 
But half the secret told, 

That, following this slight trace, 
Others may find the gold. 


FROM THE SPANISH 
COPLAS DE MANRIQUE 


OH let the soul her slumbers 
break, 

Let thought be quickened, and 
awake; 

Awake to see 

How soon this life is past and 

gone, 

And death comes softly stealing 
on, 

How silently! 


Swiftly our pleasures glide away, 
Our hearts recall the distant day 
With many sighs ; 

rhe moments that are speeding 


fast 10 
We heed not, but the past, —the 
past, 
More highly prize. 


Till life is done; 

And, did we judge of time aright, 
The past and future in their flight 
Would be as one. 


Let no one fondly dream again, 

That Hope and all her shadowy 
train 20 

Will not decay ; 

Fleeting as were the dreams of 
old, 

Remembered like a tale that’s 
told, 

They pass away. 


Our lives are rivers, gliding free 

To that unfathomed, boundless 
sea, 

The silent grave! 

Thither all earthly pomp and 


boast 
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost 
In one dark wave. 30 


Thither the mighty torrents stray, 
Thither the brook pursues its way, 
And tinkling rill. 

There all are equal; side by side 
The poor man and the son of pride 
Lie calm and still. 


I will not here invoke the throng 

Of orators and sons of song, 

The deathless few ; 

Fiction entices and deceives, 40 

And, sprinkled o’er her fragrant 
leaves, 

Lies poisonous dew. 


To One alone my thoughts arise, 
The Eternal Truth, the Good and 
Wise, 


774 





To Him I ery, 

Who shared on earth our common 
lot, 

But the world comprehended not 

His deity. 


This world is but the rugged road 

Which leads us to the bright 
abode 50 

Of peace above; 

So let us choose that narrow way, 

Which leads no traveller’s foot 
astray 

From realms of love. 


Our cradle is the starting-place, 
Life is the running of the race, 
We reach the goal 

When, in the mansions of the blest, 
Death leaves to its eternal rest 
The weary soul. 60 


Did we but use it as we ought, 

This world would school each wan- 
dering thought 

To its high state. 

Faith wings the soul beyond the 
sky, 

Up to that better world on high, 

For which we wait. 


Yes, the glad messenger of love, 
To guide us to our home above, 
The Saviour came ; 

Born amid mortal cares and fears, 
He suffered in this vale of tears 71 
A death of shame. 


Behold of what delusive worth 

The bubbles we pursue on earth, 

The shapes we chase 

Amid a world of treachery! 

They vanish ere death shuts the 
eye, 

And leave no trace. 


Time steals them from us, chances 


strange, 
Disastrous accident, and change, 
That comes to all; 8x 


Even in the most exalted state, 


TRANSLATIONS 


Relentless sweeps the stroke of 
fate; 
The strongest fall. 


Tell me, the charms that lovers 
seek 

In the clear eye and blushing 
cheek, 

The hues that play 

O’er rosy lip and brow of snow, 

When hoary age approaches slow, 

Ah, where are they ? go 


The cunning skill, the curious arts, 

The glorious strength that youth 
imparts 

In life’s first stage ; 

These shall become a _ heavy 
weight, 

When Time swings wide his out- 
ward gate 

To weary age. 


The noble blood of Gothic name, 
Heroes emblazoned high to fame, 
In long array ; 

How, in the onward course of 


time, 100 
The landmarks of that race sub- 
lime 


Were swept away! 


Some, the degraded slaves of lust, 

Prostrate and trampled in the 
dust, 

Shall rise no more ; 

Others, by guilt and crime, main. 
tain 

The scutcheon, that, without a 
stain, 

Their fathers bore. 


Wealth and the high estate of 


pride, 
With what untimely speed they 
glide, 11a 


How soon depart! 

Bid not the shadowy phantoms 
stay, 

The vassals of a mistress they, 

Of fickle heart. 


COPLAS DE 


MANRIQUE 


775 





These gifts in Fortune’s hands are 
found ; 

Her swift revolving wheel turns 
round, 

And they are gone! 

No rest the inconstant goddess 
knows, 

But changing, and without repose, 

Still hurries on. 120 


Even could the hand of avarice 
save 

Its gilded baubles, till the grave 

Reclaimed its prey, 

Let none on such poor hopes rely; 

Life, like an empty dream, flits by, 

And where are they? 


Earthly desires and sensual lust 

Are passions springing from the 
dust, 

They fade and die ; 

But, in the life beyond the tomb, 

They seal the immortal spirit’s 


doom 131 

Eternally ! 

The pleasures and delights, which 
mask 

In treacherous smiles life’s serious 
task, 


What are they all 
But the fleet coursers of the chase, 
And death an ambush in the race, 
Wherein we fall? 


No foe, no dangerous pass, we 
heed, 

Brook no delay, but onward speed 

With loosened rein ; IAI 

And, when the fatal snare is near, 

We strive to check our mad ¢a- 
reer, 

But strive in vain. 


Could we new charms to age im- 
part, 

And fashion with a cunning art 

The human face, 

As we can clothe the soul with 
light, 


And make the glorious spirit 
bright 

With heavenly grace, 150 

How busily each passing hour 

Should we exert that magic 
power! 

What ardor show, 

To deck the sensual slave of sin, 

Yet leave the freeborn soul within, 

In weeds of woe! 


Monarchs, the powerful and the 
strong, 

Famous in history and in song 

Of olden time, 

Saw, by the stern decrees of 
fate, 160 

Their kingdoms lost, and desolate 

Their race sublime. 


Who is the champion? who the 
strong? 

Pontiff and priest, and sceptred 
throng? 

On these shall fall 

As heavily the hand of Death, 

As when it stays the shepherd’s 
breath 

Beside his stall. 


I speak not of the Trojan name, 

Neither its glory nor its shame 170 

Has met our eyes; 

Nor of Rome’s great and glorious 
dead, 

Though we have heard so oft, and 
read, 

Their histories. 


Little avails it now to know 

Of ages passed so long ago, 

Nor how they rolled ; 

Our theme shall be of yesterday, 
Which to oblivion sweeps away, 
Like days of old. 180 


Where is the King, Don Juan? 
Where 

Each royal prince and noble heir 

Of Aragon? 


776 





Where are the courtly gallantries ? 

The deeds of love and high em- 
prise, 

In battle done ? 


Tourney and joust, that charmed 


the eye, 
And scarf, and gorgeous pano- 
ply, 


And nodding plume, 
What were they but a pageant 


scene? 190 
What but the garlands, gay and 
green, 


That deck the tomb ? 


Where are the high-born dames, 
and where 

Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, 

And odors sweet? 

Where are the gentle knights, that 
came 

To kneel, and breathe love’s ar- 
dent flame, 

Low at their feet ? 


Where is the song of Trouba- 


dour ? 
Where are the lute and gay tam- 
bour 200 


They loved of yore ? 

Where is the mazy dance of old, 

The flowing robes, inwrought with 
gold, 

The dancers wore ? 


And he who next the sceptre 
swayed, 

Henry, whose royal court 
played 

Such power and pride; 

Oh, in what winning smiles ar- 
rayed, 

The world its various pleasures 
laid 

His throne beside! 


dis- 


210 


But oh, how false and full of guile 

That world, which wore so soft a 
smile 

But to betray! 


TRANSLATIONS 


=~ 


She, that had been his friend be. 
fore, 

Now from the fated monarch tore 

Her charms away. 


The countless gifts, the stately 
walls, 

The royal palaces, and halls, 

All filed with gold; 


Plate with armorial bearings 
wrought, 220 

Chambers with ample treasures 
fraught 


Of wealth untold; 


The nable steeds, and harness 
bright, 

And gallant lord, and stalwart 
knight, 

In rich array, 

Where shall we seek them now? 
Alas! 

Like the bright dewdrops on the 
grass, 

They passed away. 


His brother, too, whose factious 
zeal 

Usurped the sceptre of Castile, 230 

Unskilled to reign ; 

What a gay, brilliant court had 
he, 

When all the flower of chivalry 

Was in his train! 


But he was mortal; and the breath 

That flamed from the hot forge of 
Death 

Blasted his years; 

Judgment of God! that flame by 
thee, 

When raging fierce and fearfully, 

Was quenched in tears! 240 


Spain’s haughty Constable, the true 

And gallant Master, whom we 
knew 

Most loved of all; 

Breathe not a whisper of his pride, 

He on the gloomy scaftold died, 

Ignoble fall! 





The countless treasures of his 
care, 

His villages and villas fair, 

His mighty power, 





COPLAS DE MANRIQUE 777 
And flag displayed ; 
High battlements - intrenched 
around, 280 
Bastion, and moated wall, and 
mound, 


What were they all but grief and 


shame, 250 
Tears and a broken heart, when 
came 


The parting hour? 


His other brothers, proud and high, 


Masters, who, in prosperity, 

Might rival kings; 

Who made the bravest and the 
best 

The bondsmen of their high be- 
hest, 

Their underlings ; 


What was their prosperous es- 
tate, 

When high exalted and elate 

With power and pride? 

What, but a transient gleam of 
light, 

A flame, which, glaring at 
height, 

Grew dim and died ? 


260 


its 


So many a duke of royal name, 

Marquis and count of spotless 
fame, 

And baron brave, 

That might the sword of empire 
wield, 

All these, O Death, hast thou con- 
cealed 

In the dark grave! 270 

Their deeds of mercy and of arms, 

In peaceful days, or war’s alarms, 

When thou dost show, 

O Death, thy stern and angry face, 

One stroke of thy all-powerful 
mace 

Can overthrow. 


Unnumbered hosts, that threaten 
nigh, 
Pennon and standard flaunting 


high, 


And palisade, 


And covered trench, secure and 
deep, 

All these cannot one victim keep, 

O Death, from thee, 


When thou dost battle in thy 
wrath, 

And thy strong shafts pursue their 
path 

Unerringly. 

O World! so few the years we 
live, 

Would that the life which thou 
dost give 290 


Were life indeed ! 

Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast, 

Qur happiest hour is when at 
last 

The soul is freed. 


Our days are covered o'er with 
grief, 

And sorrows neither few nor brief 

Veil all in gloom; 

Left desolate of real good, 

Within this cheerless solitude 

No pleasures bloom. 300 

Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, 

And ends in bitter doubts and 
fears, 

Or dark despair; 

Midway so many toils appear, 

That he who lingers longest here 

Knows most of care. 


Thy goods are bought with many 
a groan, 

By the hot sweat of toil alone, 

And weary hearts ; 

Fleet-footed is the approach of 
woe, 310 

But with a lingering step and slow 

Its form departs. 


778 


TRANSLATIONS 





And he, the good man’s shield and 
shade, 

To whom all hearts their homage 
paid, 

As Virtue’s son, 

Roderic Manrique, he whose name 

Is written on the scroll of Fame, 

Spain’s champion ; 


His signal deeds and prowess high 

Demand no pompous eulogy, 320 

Ye saw his deeds! 

Why should their praise in verse 
be sung? 

The name, that dwells on every 
tongue, 

No minstrel needs. 


To friends a friend; how kind to 
all 

The vassals of this ancient hall 

And feudal fief ! 

To foes how stern a foe was 
he! 

And to the valiant and the free 

How brave a chief! 330 

What prudence with the old and 
wise: 

What grace in youthful gayeties ; 

In all how sage! 

Benignant to the serf and slave, 

He showed the base and falsely 
brave 

A lion’s rage. 


His was Octavian’s prosperous 
star, 

The rush of Cesar’s conquering 
car 

At battle’s call; 

His, Scipio’s virtue; his, the skill 

And the indomitable will 341 

Of Hannibal. 


His was a Trajan’s goodness, his 
A Titus’ noble charities 

And righteous laws ; 

The arm of Hector, and the might 
Of Tully, to maintain the right 

In truth’s just cause ; 


— ~_=st 


The clemency of Antonine, 
Aurelius’ countenance divine, 354 
Firm, gentle, still; 

The eloquence of Adrian, 

And Theodosius’ love to man, 
And generous will; 


In tented field and bloody fray, 

An Alexander’s vigorous sway 

And stern command ; 

The faith of Constantine ; ay, more, 

The fervent love Camillus bore 

His native land. 360 

He left no well-filled treasury, 

He heaped no pile of riches high, 

Nor massive plate ; 

He fought the Moors, and, in their 
fall, 

City and tower and castled wall 

Were his estate. 


Upon the hard-fought  battle- 
ground, 

Brave steeds and gallant riders 
found 


A common grave ; 
And there the warrior’s hand did 


gain 370 
The rents, and the long vassal 
train, 


That conquest gave. 


And if of old his halls displayed 

The honored and exalted grade 

His worth had gained, 

So,in the dark, disastrous hour, 

Brothers and bondsmen of his 
power 

His hand sustained. 


After high deeds, not left un- 


told, 
In the stern warfare which of 
old 380 


’T was his to share, 

Such noble leagues he made that 
more 

And fairer regions than before 

His guerdon were. 


COPLAS DE MANRIQUE 


779 


a eEEeEeEeEeEe—eEe———E—E—E—EEEEEEE 


These are the records, half effaced, 

Which, with the hand of youth, he 
traced 

On history’s page ; 

But with fresh victories he drew 

Fach fading character anew 

In his old age. 390 

By his unrivalled skill, by great 

And veteran service to the state, 

By worth adored, 

He stood, in his high dignity, 

The proudest knight of chivalry, 

Knight of the Sword. 


He found his cities and domains 
Beneath a tyrant’s galling chains 
And cruel power; 

But, by fierce battle and block- 


ade, 400 
Soon his own banner was dis- 
played 


From every tower. 


By the tried valor of his hand, 

His monarch and his native land 

Were nobly served ; 

Let Portugal repeat the story, 

And proud Castile, who shared the 
glory 

His arms deserved. 


And when so oft, for weal or woe, 

His life upon the fatal throw 410 

Had been cast down; 

When hc had served, with patriot 
zeal, 

Beneath the banner of Castile, 

His sovereign’s crown ; 


And done such deeds of valor 
strong, 

That neither history nor song 

Can count them all ; 

Then, on Ocana’s castled rock, 

Death at his portal came to knock, 

With sudden eall, 420 


Saying, ‘Good Cavalier, prepare 
To leave this world of toil and 
care 


With joyful mien; 

Let thy strong heart of steel this 
day 

Put on its armor for the fray, 

The closing scene. 


‘Since thou hast been, in battle. 
strife, 

So prodigal of health and life, 

For earthly fame, 


Let virtue nerve thy heart 
again ; 430 

Loud on the last stern battle- 
plain 


They call thy name. 


‘ Think not the struggle that draws 
near 

Too terrible for man, nor fear 

To meet the foe; 

Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, 

Its life of glorious fame to leave 

On earth below. 


‘A life of honor and of worth 

Has no eternity on earth, 

*T is but a name; 

And yet its glory far exceeds 

That base and sensual life, which 
leads 

To want and shame. 


440 


‘The eternal life, beyond the sky, 

Wealth cannot purchase, nor the 
high 

And proud estate; 

The soul in dalliance laid, the 
spirit 

Corrupt with sin, shall not inherit 

A joy so great. 450 


‘But the good monk, in cloistered 
cell, 

Shall gain it by his book and 
bell, 

His prayers and tears; 

And the brave knight, whose arm 
endures 

Fierce battle, and against the 
Moors 

His standard rears. 


780 


TRANSLATIONS 





‘And thou, brave knight, whose 
hand has poured 

The life-blood of the Pagan horde 

O’er all the land, 

In heaven shalt thou receive, at 


length, 460 
The guerdon of thine earthly 
strength 


And dauntless hand. 


*‘Cheered onward by this promise 
sure, 

Strong in the faith entire and pure 

Thou dost profess, 

Depart, thy hope is certainty, 

The third, the better life on high 

Shalt thou possess.’ 


*O Death, no more, no more delay; 
My spirit longs to flee away, 470 
And be at rest; 

The will of Heaven my will shall be, 
I bow to the divine decree, 

To God’s behest. 


‘My soul is ready to depart, 

No thought rebels, the obedient 
heart 

Breathes forth no sigh; 

The wish on earth to linger still 

Were vain, when’t is God’s soy- 
ereign will 

That we shall die. 480 

‘Othou, that for our sins didst take 

A human form, and humbly make 

Thy home on earth; 

Thou, that to thy divinity 

A human nature didst ally 

By mortal birth, 


‘ And in that form didst suffer here 
Torment, and agony, and fear, 

So patiently ; 

By thy redeeming grace alone, 490 
And not for merits of my own, 

Oh, pardon me!’ 


As thus the dying warrior prayed, 
Without one gathering mist or 
shade 


Upon his mind; 

Encireled by his family, 

Watched by affection’s gentle eye 
So soft and kind; 


His soul to Him who gave it rose; 

God lead it to its long repose, 500 

Its glorious rest! 

And, though the warrior’s sun has 
set, 

Its light shall linger round us yet, 

Bright, radiant, blest. 


SONNETS 
I 
THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
(EL BuEN Pastor.) 
BY LOPE DE VEGA 


SHEPHERD! who with thine amo. 
rous, sylvan song 
Hast broken the slumber that 
encompassed me, 
Who mad’st thy crook from the 
accursed tree, 

On which thy powerful arms 
were stretched so long! 
Lead me to mercy’s ever-flowing 

fountains ; 
For thou my shepherd, guard, 
and guide shalt be; 
I will obey thy voice, and wait 
to see 
Thy feet all beautiful upon the 
mountains. 
Hear, Shepherd! thou who for thy 
flock art dying, 
Oh, wash away these scarlet 
sins, for thou 
Rejoicest at the contrite sinner’s 
vow. 
Oh, wait! to thee my weary soul 
‘is erying, 
Wait for me! 
when I see, 
With feet nailed to the cross, 
thou ’rt waiting still for me! 


Yet why ask it. 


en ee 


THE IMAGE OF GOD 


781 


nr rrr EE eo 


rr 
TO-MORROW 


(MANANA.) 
BY LOPE DE VEGA 


LORD, what am I, that, with un- 
ceasing care, 
Thou didst seek after me, that 
thou didst wait, 
Wet with unhealthy dews, be- 
fore my gate, 
And pass the gloomy nights of 
winter there? 
Oh, strange delusion, that I did 
not greet 
Thy blest approach! and oh, to 
Heaven how lost, 
If my ingratitude’s unkindly 
frost 
Has chilled the bleeding wounds 
upon thy feet! 
How oft my guardian angel gently 
cried, 
‘Soul, from thy casement look, 
and thou shalt see 
How he persists to knock and 
wait for thee!’ 
And, oh! how often to that voice 
of sorrow, 
“To-morrow we will open,’ I re- 
plied, 
And when the morrow came 
I answered still, * To-mor- 
row.’ 


Til 
THE NATIVE LAND 
(Ex PaTRIO CIELO.) 
BY FRANCISCO DE ALDANA 


ULEAR fount of light! my native 
land on high, 
Bright with a glory that shall 
never fade! 


Mansion of truth! without a veil 
or shade, 
Thy holy quiet meets the spirit’s 
eye. 
There dwells the soul in its ethe- 
real essence, 
Gasping no longer for life’s fee- 
ble breath ; 
But, sentinelled in heaven, its 
glorious presence 
With pitying eye beholds, yet 
fears not, death. 
Beloved country! banished from 
thy shore, 
A stranger in this prison-house 
of clay, 
The exiled spirit weeps and 
sighs for thee! 
Heavenward the bright perfec- 
tions I adore 
Direct, and the sure promise 
cheers the way, 
That, whither love aspires, there 
shall my dwelling be. 


IV 
THE IMAGE OF GOD 
(La ImAgEn DE Dios.) 
BY FRANCISCO DE ALDANA 


O LorD! who seest, from yon 
starry height, 
Centred in one the future and 
the past, 
Fashioned in thine own image, 
see how fast 
The world obscures in me what 
once was bright! 
Eternal Sun! the warmth which 
thou hast given, 
To cheer life’s flowery April, fast 
decays; 
Yet, in the hoary winter of my 
days, 
Forever green shall be my trust 
in Heaven. 


782 


TRANSLATIONS 





Celestial King! oh let thy presence 
pass 
Before my spirit, and an image 
fair 
Shall meet that look of mercy 
from on high, 
As the reflected image in a giass 
Doth meet the look of him who 
seeks it there, 


And owes its being to the gazer’s- 


eye. 


Vv 
THE BROOK 


(4 uN ARROYUELO.) 


ANONYMOUS 


LAUGH of the mountain! — lyre of 
bird and tree! 
Pomp of the meadow! mirror of 
the morn! 
The soul of April, unto whom 
are born 
The rose and jessamine, leaps 
wild in thee! 
Although, where’er thy devious 
current strays, 
The lap of earth with gold and 
silver teems, 
me thy clear 
brighter seems 
Than golden sands, that charm 
each shepherd’s gaze. 
How without guile thy bosom, all 
transparent 
As the pure crystal, lets the cu- 
rious eye 
Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, 
round pebbles count! 
How, without malice murmuring, 
glides thy current! 
O sweet simplicity of days gone 
by! 
Thou shun’st the haunts of man, 
to dwell in limpid fount! 


To proceeding 


ANCIENT SPANISH BAL- 
LADS 


I 


Rio VERDE, Rio Verde! 
Many a corpse is bathed in thee, 
Both of Moors and eke of Chris. 
tians, 
Slain with swords most cruelly. 


And thy pure and crystal waters 
Dappled are with crimson gore; 
For between the Moors and Chris. 
tians 
Long has been the fight and 
sore. 


Dukes and counts fell bleeding 
near thee, 
Lords of high renown were slain, 
Perished many a brave hidalgo 
Of the noblemen of Spain. 


II 


‘King Alfonso the Eighth, having ex- 
hausted his treasury in war, wishes to 
lay a tax of five farthings upon each 
of the Castilian hidalgos, in order to 
defray the expenses of a journey from 
Burgos to Cuenca. This proposition of 
the king was met with disdain by the 


noblemen who had been assembled on ~ 


the occasion.’ 


DON NuNO, Count of Lara, 
In anger and in pride, 

Forgot all reverence for the king, 
And thus in wrath replied: 


‘Our noble ancestors,’ quoth he, 
‘Never such a tribute paid ; 

Nor shall the king receive of us 
What they have once gainsaid 


‘The base-born soul who deems ik 
just 
May here with thee remain; 
But follow me, ye cavaliers, 
Ye noblemen of Spain.’ 


ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS 


783 





Forth followed they the noble 
Count, 
They marched to Glera’s plain ; 
Out of three thousand gallant. 
knights 
Did only three remain. 


They tied the tribute to their 
spears, 
They raised it in the air, 
And they sent to tell their lord 
the king 
That his tax was ready there. 


‘He may send and take by force,’ 
said they, 
‘This paltry sum of gold; 
But the goodly gift of liberty 
Cannot be bought and sold.’ 


III 

* One of the finest of the historic bal- 
lads is that which describes Bernardo’s 
march to Roncesvalles. He _ sallies 
ferth ‘‘ with three thousand Leonese 
and more,’’ to protect the glory and 
freedom of his native land. From all 
sides, the peasantry of the land flock 
to the hero’s standard.’ 


THE peasant leaves his plough 
‘ afield, 
The reaper leaves his hook, 
And from his hand the shepherd- 
boy 
Lets fall the pastoral crook. 


The young set up a shout of joy, 
The old forget their years, 
The feeble man grows stout of 
heart, 
No more the craven fears. 


All rush to Bernard’s standard, 
And on liberty they call; 
They cannot brook to wear the 
yoke, 
When threatened by the Gaul. 


‘Free were we born,’ ’t is thus they 


ery, 
‘And willingly pay we 

The duty that we owe our king, 
By the divine decree. 


‘But God forbid that we obey 
The laws of foreign knaves, 

Tarnish the glory of our sires, 
And make our children slaves. 


‘Our hearts have not so craven 
grown, 
So bloodless all our veins, 
So vigorless our brawny arms, 
As to submit to chains. 


‘Has the audacious Frank, for- 
sooth, ; 
Subdued these seas and lands ? 
Shall he a bloodless victory have? 
No, not while we have hands. 


‘He shall learn that the gallant 
Leonese 
Can bravely fight and fall, 
But that they know not how to 
yield; 
They are Castilians all. 


‘Was it for this the Roman pow- 
er 
Of old was made to yield 
Unto Numantia’s valiant hosts 
On many a bloody field? 


‘Shall the bold lions that have 
bathed 
Their paws in Libyan gore, 
Crouch basely to a feebler foe, 
And dare the strife no more ? 


‘Let the false king sell town and 
tower, 
But not his vassals free ; 
For to subdue the free-born soul] 
No royal power hath he!’ 


784 TRANSLATIONS 





VIDA DE SAN MILLAN 
BY GONZALO DE BERCEO 


AND when the kings were in the field, — their squadrons in array, -— 
With lance in rest they onward pressed to mingle in the fray; 

But soon upon the Christians fell a terror of their foes, — 

These were a humerous army, —a little handful those. 


And while the Christian people stood in this uncertainty, 

Upward to heaven they turned their eyes, and fixed their thoughts or 
high; 

And there two figures they beheld, all beautiful and bright, 

Even than the pure new-fallen snow their garments were more white. 


They rode upon two horses more white than crystal sheen, 
And arms they bore such as before no mortal man had seen; 
The one, he held a crosier, —a pontiff’s mitre wore; 

The other held a crucifix, — such man ne’er saw before. 


Their faces were angelical, celestial forms had they, — 

And downward through the fields of air they urged their rapid way: 
They looked upon the Moorish host with fierce and angry look, 

And in their hands, with dire portent, their naked sabres shook. 


The Christian host, beholding this, straightway take heart again; 
They fall upon their bended knees, all resting on the plain, 

And each one with his clenched fist to smite his breast begins, 
And promises to God on high he will forsake his sins. 


And when the heavenly knights drew near unto the battle-ground, 
They dashed among the Moors and dcalt unerring blows around; 
Such deadly havoc there they made the foremost ranks along, 

A panic terror spread unto the hindmost of the throng. 


Together with these two good knights, the champions of the sky, 
The Christians rallied and began to smite full sore and high; 
The Moors raised up their voices and by the Koran swore 

That in their lives such deadly fray they ne’er had seen before. 


Down went the misbelievers, — fast sped the bloody fight, — 

Some ghastly and dismembered lay, and some half dead with fright : 
Full sorely they repented that to the field they came, 

For they saw that from the battle they should retreat with shame. 


Another thing befell them, — they dreamed not of such woes, — 
The very arrows that the Moors shot from their twanging bows 


Turned back against them in their flight and wounded them full sore. 


And every blow they dealt the foe was paid in drops of gore. 


® e e e . . . a, 6 ° e . ° . ° e e 


SAN MIGUEL, THE CONVENT 785 





Now he that bore the crosier, and the papal crown had on, 
Was the glorified Apostle, the brother of Saint John; 

And he that held the crucifix, and wore the monkish hood, 
Was the holy San Millan of Cogolla’s neighborhood, 


SAN MIGUEL, THE CONVENT 
(SAN MIGUEL DE LA TUMBA) 
BY GONZALO DE BERCEO 


SAN MIGUEL DE LA TUMBA is a convent vast and wide; 
The sea encircles it around, and groans on every side: 

It is a wild and dangerous place, and many woes betide 
The monks who in that burial-place in penitence abide. 


Within those dark monastic walls, amid the ocean flood, 
Of pious, fasting monks there dwelt a holy brotherhood ; 
To the Madonna’s glory there an altar high was placed, 
And a rich and costly image the sacred altar graced. 


Exalted high upon a throne, the Virgin Mother smiled, 

And, as the custom is, she held within her arms the Child ; 

The kings and wise men of the East were kneeling by her side; 
Attended was she like a queen whom God had sanctified. 


. ° . . ° ° ° e e . ° ° ° ° 


Descending low before her face a screen of feathers hung, — 

A moscader, or fan for flies, ’t is called in vulgar tongue; 

From the feathers of the peacock’s wing ’t was fashioned bright and 
fair 

And glistened like the heaven above when all its stars are there. 


It chanced that, for the people’s sins, fell the lightning’s blasting 
stroke: 

Forth from all four the sacred walls the flames consuming broke; 

The sacred robes were all consumed, missal and holy book ; 

And hardly with their lives the monks their crumbling walls forsook. 


° ° . . ° ° ry ° ° ® 


But though the desolating flame raged fearfully and wild, 

It did not reach the Virgin Queen, it did not reach the Child; 

It did net reach the feathery screen before her face that shone, 
Nor injure in a farthing’s worth the image or the throne, 


The image it did not consume, it did not burn the screen; 

Even in the value of a hair they were not hurt, I ween ; 

Not even the smoke did reach them, nor injure more the shrine 
Than the bishop hight Don Tello has been hurt by hand of mine. 


786 


TRANSLATIONS 





SONG 


SHR is a maid of artless grace, 
Gentle in form, and fair of face. 


Tell me, thou ancient mariner, 
That sailest on the sea, 

If ship, or sail, or evening star 
Be half so fair as she! 


Tell me, thou gallant cavalier, 
Whose shining arms I see, 

Tf steel, or sword, or battle-field 
Be half so fair as she! 


Tell me, thou swain, that guard’st 
thy flock : 
Beneath the shadowy tree, 
If flock, or vale, or mountain-ridge 
Be half so fair as she! 


SANTA TERESA’S BOOK- 
MARK 


(LETRILLA QUE LLEVABA POR REGISTRIO 
EN su BREVIARIO) 


BY SANTA TERESA DE AVILA 


LET nothing disturb thee, 
Nothing affright thee ; 
All things are passing; 
God never changeth: 
Patient endurance 
Attaineth to all things; 
Who God possesseth 

In nothing is wanting; 
Alone God sufficeth. 


FROM THE CANCIONEROS 
I 


EYES SO TRISTFUL, EYES SO 
TRISTFUL 


(Osos TristEs, OJos TRISTES) 
BY DIEGO DE SALDANA 


EYEs so tristful, eyes so tristful, 
Heart so full of care and cumber, 


TI was lapped in rest and slumber, 

Ye have made me wakeful, wistful} 

In this life of labor endless 

Who shall comfort my distresses? 

Querulous my soul and friendless 

In its sorrow shuns caresses. 

Ye have made me, ye have made 
me 

Querulous of you, that care not, 

Eyes so tristful, yet I dare not 

Say to what ye have betrayed me. 


II 
SOME DAY, SOME DAY 
(ALGUNA VEZ) 
BY CRISTOBAL DE GASTILLEJG 


SOME day, some day, 
O troubled breast, 
Shalt thou find rest. 
If Love in thee 

To grief give birth, 
Six feet of earth 

Can more than he; 
There calm and free 
And unoppressed 
Shalt thou find rest. 


The unattained 

In life at last, 

When life is passed, 
Shall all be gained; 
And no more pained, 
No more distressed, 
Shalt thou find rest. 


III 


COME, O DEATH, SO SILENT 
FLYING 


(VEN, MUERTE TAN ESCONDIDA) 
BY EL COMMENDADOR ESCRIVA 


CoME, O Death, so silent flying 
That unheard thy coming be, 
Lest the sweet delight of dying 
Bring life back again to me. 

For thy sure approach perceiving, 


PASSAGES FROM FRITHIOF’S SAGA 787 





In my constancy and pain IV 

T new life should win again, 

Thinking that I am not living. GLOVE OF BLACK IN WHITE 

So to me, unconscious lying, HAND BARE 

All unknown thy coming be, 

Lest the sweet delight of dying GLOVE of black in white hand 

Bring life back again to me. bare, 

Unto him who finds thee hateful, | And about her forehead pale 

Death, thou art inhuman pain; Wound a thin, transparent veil, 

But to me, who dying gain, That doth not conceal her hair ; 

Life is but a task ungrateful. Sovereign attitude and air, 

Come, then, with my wish comply- | Cheek and neck alike displayed, 
ing, With coquettish charms arrayed, 

All unheard thy coming be, Laughing eyes and fugitive ; — 

Lest the sweet delight of dying This is killing men that live, 

Bring life back again to me. *T is not mourning for the dead. 


FROM THE SWEDISH AND DANISH 
PASSAGES FROM FRITHIOF’S SAGA 
BY ESAIAS TEGNER 


I 
FRITHIOF’S HOMESTEAD 


THREE miles extended around the fields of the homestead, on three 
sides 

Valleys and mountains and hills, but on the fourth side was the ocean. 

Birch woods crowned the summits, but down the slope of the hillsides 

Flourished the golden corn, and man-high was waving the rye-field. 

Lakes, full many in number, their mirror held up for the mountains, 

Held for the forests up, in whose depths the high-horned reindeers 

Had their kingly walk, and drank of a hundred brooklets. 

But in the valleys widely around, there fed on the greensward 

Herds with shining hides and udders that longed for the milk-pail. 9 

*Mid these scattered, now here and now there, were numberless flocks of 

Sheep with fleeces white, as thou seest the white-looking stray clouds, 

Flock-wise spread o’er the heavenly vault, when it bloweth in spring- 
time. 

Coursers two times twelve, all mettlesome, fast fettered storm-winds, 

Stamping stood in the line of stalls, and tugged at their fodder, 

Knotted with red were their manes, and their hoofs all white with steel 
shoes, 

Th’ banquet-hall, a house by itself, was timbered of hard fir. 

Not five hundred men (at ten times twelve to the hundred) 

Filled up the roomy hall, when assembled for drinking, at Yule-tide. 

Thorough the ball, as long as it was, went a table of holm-oak, 


788 TRANSLATIONS 





Polished and white, as of steel; the columns twain of the High-seat 20 

Stood at the end thereof, two gods carved out of an elm-tree; 

Odin with lordly look, and Frey with the sun on his frontlet. 

Lately between the two, on a bear-skin (the skin it was coal-black, 

Scarlet-red was the throat, but the paws were shodden with silver), 

Thorsten sat with his friends, Hospitality sitting with Gladness. 

Oft, when the moon through the cloud-rack flew, related the old man 

Wonders from distant lands he had seen, and cruises of Vikings 

Far away on the Baltic, and Sea of the West, and the White Sea. 

Hushed sat the listening bench, and their glances hung on the gray- 
beard’s 

Lips, as a bee on the rose; but the Scald was thinking of Brage, 30 

Where, with his silver beard, and runes on his tongue, he is seated 

Under the leafy beech, and tells a tradition by Mimer’s 

Ever-murmuring wave, himself a living tradition. 

Midway the floor (with thatch was it strewn) burned ever the fire- 
flame 

Glad on its stone-built hearth; and thorough the wide-mouthed 
smoKe-flue 

Looked the stars, those heavenly friends, down into the great hall. 

Round the walls, upon nails of steel, were hanging in order 

Breastplate and helmet together, and here and there among them 

Downward lightened a sword, as in winter evening a star shoots. 

More than helmets and swords the shields in the hall were resplen- 
dent, 40 

White as the orb of the sun, or white as the moon’s disk of silver. 

Ever and anon went a maid round the board, and filled up the drink- 
horns, 

Ever she cast down her eyes and blushed ; in the shield her reflection 

Blushed, too, even as she ; this gladdened the drinking champions. 


II 
A SLEDGE-RIDE ON THE ICE 


KING RING with his queen to the banquet did fare, 
On the lake stood the ice so mirror-clear. 


‘Fare not o’er the ice,’ the stranger cries; 
‘It will burst, and full deep the cold bath lies.’ 


‘The king drowns not easily,’ Ring outspake; 
*He who’s afraid may go round the lake.’ 5e 


Threatening and dark looked the stranger round, 
His steel shoes with haste on his feet he bound. 


The sledge-horse starts forth strong and free ; 
He snorteth flames, so glad is he. 


‘Strike out,’ screamed the king, ‘ my trotter good, 
Let us see if thou art of Sleipner’s blood.’ 


PASSAGES FROM FRITHIOF’S SAGA 789 





They go as a storm goes over the lake, 
No heed to his queen doth the old man take. 


But the steel-shod champion standeth not still, 
He passeth them by as swift as he will. - 60 


He carves many runes in the frozen tide, 
Fair Ingeborg o’er her own name doth glide. 


Til 
FRITHIOE’S TEMPTATION 


SPRING is coming, birds are twittering, forests leaf, and smiles the sun, 
And the loosened torrents downward, singing, to the ocean run; 
Glowing like the cheek of Freya, peeping rosebuds ’gin to ope, 

And in human hearts awaken love of life, and joy, and hope. 


Now will hunt the ancient monarch, and the queen shall join the sport: 
Swarming in its gorgeous splendor, is assembled all the court ; 

Bows ring loud, and quivers rattle, stallions paw the ground alway, 
And, with hoods upon their eyelids, scream the falcons for their prey. 70 


See, the Queen of the chase advances! Frithiof, gaze not at the sight! 
Like a star upon a spring-cloud sits she on her palfrey white. 

Half of Freya, half of Rota, yet more beauteous than these two, 

And from her light hat of purple wave aloft the feathers blue. 


Gaze not at her eyes’ blue heaven, gaze not at her golden hair! 
Oh beware! her waist is slender, full her bosom is, beware! 
Look not at the rose and lily on her cheek that shifting play, 
List not to the voice beloved, whispering like the wind of May. 


Now the huntsman’s band is ready. Hurrah! over hill and dale! 
Horns ring, and the hawks right upward to the hall of Odin sail. 80 
All the dwellers in the forest seek in fear their cavern homes, 

But, with spear outstretched before her, after them the Valkyr comes. 


Then threw Frithiof down his mantle, and upon the greensward spread, it 
And the ancient king so trustful laid on Frithiof’s knee his head, 

Slept as calmly as the hero sleepeth, after war’s alarm, 

On his shield, or as an infant sleeps upon its mother’s arm, 


As he slumbers, hark! there sings a coal-black bird upon the bough ; 
‘Hasten, Frithiof, slay the old man, end your quarrel at a blow: 

‘Take his queen, for she is thine, and once the bridal kiss she gave, 
Now no human eye beholds thee, deep and silent is the grave.’ 9c 


Frithiof listens; hark! there sings a snow-white bird upon the bough: 
‘Though no human eye beholds thee, Odin’s eye beholds thee now. 
Coward ! wilt thou murder sleep, and a defenceless old man slay! 
Whatsoe’er thou winn’st, thou canst not win a hero’s fame this way.’ 


790 TRANSLATIONS 





Thus the two wood-birds did warble: Frithiof took his war-sword good, 
With a shudder hurled it from him, far into the gloomy wood. 
Coal-black bird flies down to Nastrand, but on light, unfolded wings, 
Like the tone of harps, the other, sounding towards the sun, upsprings. 


Straight the ancient king awakens. ‘Sweet has been my sleep,’ he 


said; 
‘Pleasantly sleeps one in the shadow. guarded by a brave man’s 
blade. 100 


But where is thy sword, O stranger? Lightning’s brother, where is he? 
Who thus parts you, who should never from each other parted be!’ 


‘It avails not,’ Frithiof answered; ‘in the North are other swords: 

Sharp, O monarch! is the sword’s tongue, and it speaks not peaceful 
words; 

Murky spirits dwell in steel blades, spirits from the Niffelhem; 

Slumber is not safe before them, silver locks but anger them.’ 


IV 
FRITHIOF’S FAREWELL 


No more shall I see 

In its upward motion 

The smoke of the Northland. Man isa slave: 

The fates decree. 11e 
On the waste of the ocean 

There is my fatherland, there is my grave. 


Go not to the strand, 

Ring, with thy bride, 

After the stars spread their light through the sky. 
Perhaps in the sand, 

Washed up by the tide, 

The bones of the outlawed Viking may lie. 


Then, quoth the king, 
‘°T is mournful to hear 120 
A man like a whimpering maiden cry. 
The death-song they sing 
Even now in mine ear. 
What avails it? He who is born must die.’ 


THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD’S SUPPER 
BY ESAIAS TEGNER 


PENTECOST, day of rejoicing, had come. The church of the village 
Gleaming stood in the morning’s sheen. On the spire o¢ the belfry, 
Decked with a brazen cock, the friendly flames of the Spring-sun 
Glanced like the tongues of fire, beheld by Apostles aforetime. 


THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD’S SUPPER j7or 





Clear was the heaven and blue, and May, with her cap crowned with 
roses, 

Stood in her holiday dress in the fields, and the wind and the brook. 
let 

Murmured gladness and peace, God’s-peace! with lips rosy-tinted 

Whispered the race of the flowers, and merry on balancing branches 

Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn to the Highest. - 

Swept and clean was the churchyard. Adorned like a leaf-woven 
arbor 10 

Stood its old-fashioned gate; and within upon each cross of iron 

Hung was a fragrant garland, new twined by the hands of affection. 

Even the dial, that stood on a mound among the departed, 

(There full a hundred years had it stood,) was embellished with 
blossoms. 

Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith and the hamlet, 

Who on his birthday is crowned by children and children’s children, 

So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with his pencil of iron 

Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured the time and its changes, 

While all around at his feet, an eternity slumbered in quiet. 

Also the church within was adorned, for this was the season 20 

When the young, their parents’ hope, and the loved-ones of heaven, 

Should at the foot of the altar renew the vows of their baptism. 

Therefore each nook and corner was swept and cleaned, and the dust 
was 

Blown from the walls and ceiling, and from the oil-painted benches. 

There stood the church like a garden; the Feast of the Leafy Pavil- 
ions 

Sew we in living presentment. From noble arms on the church wall 

Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and the preacher’s pulpit of oak-wood 

Budded once more anew, as aforetime the rod before Aaron. 

Wreathed thereon was the Bible with leaves, and the dove, washed 
with silver, 

Under its canopy fastened, had on it a necklace of wind-flowers. 30 

But in front of the choir, round the altar-piece painted by Horberg, 

Crept a garland gigantic; and bright-curling tresses of angels 

Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, from out of the shadowy leaf-work. 

Likewise the lustre of brass, new-polished, blinked from the ceiling, 

And for lights there were lilies of Pentecost set in the sockets. 


Loud rang the bells already; the thronging crowd was assembled 
Far from valleys and hills, to li8t to the holy preaching. 
Hark! then roll forth at once the mighty tones of the organ, 
Hover like voices from God, aloft like invisible spirits. 
Like as Elias in heaven, when he cast from off him his mantle, 40 
So east off the soul its garments of earth; and with one voice 
Chimed in the congregation, and sang an anthem immortal 
Of the sublime Wallin, of David’s harp in the North-land 
Tuned to the choral of Luther; the song on its mighty pinions 
Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to heaven, 
And each face did shine like the Holy One’s face upon Tabor. 
Lo! there entered then into the church the Reverend Teacher. 


792 TRANSLATIONS 





Father he hight and he was in the parish; a Christianly plainness 

Clothed from his head to his feet the old man of seventy winters. 

Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the heralding angel 50 

Walked he among the crowds, but still a contemplative grandeur 

Lay on his torehead as clear aS On moss-covered gravestone a sub 
beam. 

As in his inspiration (an evening twilight that faintly 

Gleams in the human soul, even now, from the day of creation) 

Th’ Artist, the friend of heaven, imagines Saint John when in Patmos, 

Gray, with his eyes uplifted to heaven, so seemed then the old man ; 

Such was the glance of his eye, aud such were his tresses of silver. 

All the congregation arose in the pews that were numbered. 

But with a cordial look, to the right and the left hand, the old man 


Nodding all hail and peace, disappeared in the innermost chancel. 60 — 


Simply and solemnly now proceeded the Christian service, 
Singing and prayer, and at last an ardent discourse from the old man. 
Many a meving word and warning, that out of the heart came, 
Fell like the dew of the morning, like manna on those in the desert. 
Then, when all was finished, the Teacher reéntered the chancel, 
Followed therein by the young. The boys on the right had their 

places, 

Delicate figures, with close-curling hair and cheeks rosy-blooming. 
But on the left of these there stood the tremulous lilies, 
Tinged with the blushing light of the dawn, the diffident maidens, — 


Folding their hands in prayer, and their eyes cast down on the pave- — 


ment. 70 
Now came, with question and answer, the catechism. In the begin- 
ning 
Answered the children with troubled and faltering voice, but the old 
man’s 


Glances of kindness encouraged them soon, and the doctrines eternal 
Flowed, like the waters of fountains, so clear from lips unpolluted. 


Each time the answer was closed, and as oft as they named the Re- ~ 


deemer, 
Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the maidens all courtesied. 
Friendly the Teacher stood, like an angel of light there among them, 
And to the children explained the holy, the highest, in few words, 
Thorough, yet simple and clear, for sublimity always is simple, 
Both in sermon and song, a child can seize on its meaning. 8a 
EK’en as the green-growing bud unfolds when Springtide approaches, 
Leaf by leaf puts forth, and, warmed by the radiant sunshine, 
Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the perfected blossom 
Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks with its crown in the breezes, 
So was unfolded here the Christian lore of salvation, 
Line by line from the soul of childhood. The fathers and mothers 
Stood behind them in tears, and were glad at the weil-worded answer. 


Now went the old man up to the altar;—and straightway trans 
figured 
So did it seem unto me) was then the affectionate Teacher. 


THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER (793 


Se ee 


Like the Lord’s Prophet sublime, and awful as Death and as Judg- 


ment go 
Stood he, the God-commissioned, the soul-searcher, earthward de- 
scending. 


Glances, sharp as a sword, into hearts that to him were transparent 

Shot he; his voice was deep, was low like the thunder afar off. 

So on a sudden transfigured he stood there, he spake and he ques. 
tioned. 


‘ This is the faith of the Fathers, the faith the Apostles delivered, 
This is moreover the faith whereunto I baptized you, while still ye 
Lay on your mothers’ breasts, and nearer the portals of heaven, 
Slumbering received you then the Holy Church in its bosom ; 
Wakened from sleep are ye now, and the light in its radiant splendor 
Downward rains from the heaven ;— to-day on the threshold of ehild- 

hood 100 
Kindly she frees you again, to examine and make your election, 
For she knows naught of compulsion, and only conviction desireth. 
This is the hour of your trial, the turning-point of existence, 
Seed for the coming days; without revocation departeth 
Now from your lips the confession. Bethink ye, before ye make 
answer! 
Think not, oh think not with guile to deceive the questioning Teacher. 
Sharp is his eye to-day, and a curse ever rests upon falsehood. 
Enter not with a lie on Life’s journey ; the multitude hears you, 
Brothers and sisters and parents, what dear upon earth is and holy 
Standeth before your sight as a witness; the Judge everlasting 110 
Looks from the sun down upon you, and angels in waiting beside him 
Grave your confession in letters of fire upon tablets eternal. 
Thus, then, — believe ye in God, in the Father who this world created ? 
Him who redeemed it, the Son, and the Spirit where both are united ? 
Will ye promise me here, (a holy promise !) to cherish — 
God more than all things earthly, and every man as a brother ? 
Will ye promise me here, to confirm your faith by your living, 
Tl heavenly faith of affection! to hope, to forgive, and to suffer, 
Be what it may your condition, and walk before God in uprightness ? 
Will ye promise me this before God and man?’— With a clear 
voice 120 
Answered the young men Yes! and Yes ! with lips softly-breathing 
Answered the maidens eke. Then dissolved from the brow of the 
Teacher 
Clouds with the lightnings therein, and he spake in accents more gen- 
tle, 
Soft as the evening’s breath, as harps by Babylon’s rivers. 


‘ Hail, then, hail to youall! To the heirdom of heaven be ye wel- 
come! 
Children no more from this day, but by covenant brothers and sisters! 
Yet, —for what reason not children? Ofsuch is the kingdom of hea- 
ven. 
Here upon earth an assemblage of children, in heaven one Father, 


794 TRANSLATIONS 


et 


Ruling them all as his household, — forgiving in turn and chastising, 

That is of human life a picture, as Scripture has taught us. 130 

Blest are the pure before God! Upon purity and upon virtue 

Resteth the Christian Faith; she herself from on high is descended. 

Strong aS a man and pure as a child, is the sum of the doctrine, 

Which the Divine One taught, and suffered and died on the cross for. 

Oh, as ye wander this day from childhood’s sacred asylum 

Downward, and ever downward, and deeper in Age’s chill valley, 

Oh, how soon will ye come, —too soon! —and long to turn back: 
ward 

Up to its hill-tops again, to the sun-illumined, where Judgment 

Stood like a father before you, and Pardon, clad like a mother, 

Gave you her hand to kiss, and the loving heart was forgiven, 140 

Life was a play and your hands grasped after the roses of heaven ! 

Seventy years have I lived already ; the Father eternal 

Gave me gladness and care; but the loveliest hours of existence, 

When I have steadfastly gazed in their eyes, I have instantly known 
them, 

Known them all again; — they were my childhood’s acquaintance. 

Therefore take from henceforth, as guides in the paths of existence, 

Prayer, with her eyes raised to heaven, and Innocence, bride of man’s 
childhood. 

Innocence, child beloved, is a guest from the world of the blessed, 

Beautiful, and in her hand a lily; on life’s roaring billows 

Swings she in safety, she heedeth them not,in the ship she is sleep< 
ing. 150 

Calmly she gazes around in the turmoil of men; in the desert i 

Angels descend and minister unto her; she herself knoweth 

Naught of her glorious attendance ; but follows faithful and humble, 

Follows so long as she may her friend; oh do not reject her, 

For she cometh from God and she holdeth the keys of the heavens. 

Prayer is Innocence’ friend; and willingly flieth incessant 

*Twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of heaven. 

Son of Eternity, fettered in Time, and an exile, the Spirit 

Tugs at his chains evermore, and struggles like flame ever upward. 


Still he recalls with emotion his Father’s manifold mansions, 160 
Thinks of the land of his fathers, where blossomed more freshly the 
flowerets, 


Shone a more beautiful sun, and he played with the wingéd angels. 

Then grows the earth too narrow, too close; and homesick for heaven 

Longs the wanderer again; and the Spirit’s longings are worship ; 

Worship is called his most beautiful hour, and its tongue is entreaty 

Ah! when the infinite burden of life descendeth upon us, 

Crushes to earth our hope, and, under the earth, in the graveyard, 

Then it is good to pray unto God; for his sorrowing children 

Turns He ne’er from his door, but He heals and helps and consoles 
them. 

Yet is it better to pray when all things are prosperous with us, 17G 

Pray in fortunate days, for life’s most beautiful Fortune 

Kneels before the Eternal’s throne; and with hands interfolded, 

Praises thankful and moved the only giver of blessings. 


THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD’S SUPPER 795 








Or do ye know, ye children, one blessing that comes not from Heaven? 
What has mankind forsooth, the poor! that it has not received ? 
Therefore, fallin the dust and pray! The seraphs adoring 

Cover with pinions six their face in the glory of Him who 

Hung his masonry pendent on-naught, when the world He created. 
Earth declareth his might, and the firmament utters his glory. 


Races blossom and die, and stars fall downward from heaven, 180 
Downward like withered leaves ; at the last stroke of midnight, millen- 
niums 


Lay themselves down at his feet, and He sees them, but counts them 
as nothing. 

Who shall standin his presence? The wrath of the Judge is terrific, 

Casting the insolent down ata glance. When He speaks in his anger 

Hillocks skip like the kid, and mountains leap like the roebuck., 

Yet, — why are ye afraid, ye children? This awful avenger, 

Ah! is amerciful God! God’s voice was not in the earthquake, 

Notin the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the whispering breezes. 

Love is the root of creation; God’s essence; worlds without number 

Lie in his bosom like children; He made them for this purpose 
only. 190 

Only to love and to be loved again, He breathed forth his spirit 

Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, it laid its 

Hand on its heart, and feltit was warm with a flame out of heaven. 

Quench, oh quench not that flame! Itis the breath of your being. 

Love is life, but hatred is death. Not father nor mother 

Loved you, as God has loved you; for *t was that you may be happy 

Gave He his only Son. When He bowed down his head in the death- 
hour 

Solemnized Love its triumph; the sacrifice then was completed. 

Lo! then was rent on a sudden the veil of the temple, dividing 

Earth and heaven apart, and the dead from their sepulchres rising 200 

Whispered with pallid lips and low in the ears of each other 

Th’ answer, but dreamed of before, to creation’s enigma,— Atone- 
ment! 

Depths of Love are Atonement’s depths, for Love is Atonement. 

Therefore, child of mortality, love thou the merciful Father; 

Wish what the Holy One wishes, and not from fear, but affection; 

Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that loveth is willing ; 

Perfect was before God, and perfect is Love, and Love only. 

Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest thou likewise thy 
brethren ; 

One is the sun in heaven, and one, only one, is Love also. 

Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp on his forehead? 2:0 

Readest thou notin his face thine origin? Is he not sailing 

Lost like thyself on an ocean unknown, and is he not guided 

By the same stars that guide thee? Why shouldst thou hate then thy 
brother? 

Hateth he thee, forgive! For ’tis sweet to stammer one letter 

Of the Eternal’s language ; — on earth it is called Forgiveness! 

Knowest thou Him, who forgave, with the crown of thorns on his tem- 
ples ? 





796 TRANSLATIONS 


—_—_—— 


Earnestly prayed for his foes,for his murderers? Say, dost thou know 
Him ? 

Ah! thou confessest his name, so follow likewise his example, 

Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil over his failings, 

Guide the erring aright; for the good, the heavenly shepherd 220 

Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it back to its mother. 

This is the fruit of Love, and it is by its fruits that we know it. 

Love is the creature’s welfare, with God; but Love among mortals 

Is but an endless sigh! He longs, and endures, and stands waiting, 

Suffers and yet rejoices, and smiles with tears on his eyelids. 

Hope, — so is called upon earth his recompense,— Hope, the befriend. 
ing, } 

Does what she can, for she points evermore up to heaven, and faithful 

Plunges her anchor’s peak in the depths of the grave, and beneath it 

Paints a more beautiful world, a dim, but a sweet play of shadows! 

Races, better than we, have leaned on her wavering promise, 230 

Having naught else but Hope. Then praise we our Father in heaven, 

Him, who has given us more; for to us has Hope been transfigured, 

Groping no longer in night; she is Faith, she is living assurance. 

Faith is enlightened Hope; she is light, is the eye of affection, 

Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves their visions in marble. 

Faith is the sun of life; and her countenance shines like the Hebrew’s, 

For she has looked upon God; the heaven on its stable foundation 

Draws she with chains down to earth, and the New Jerusalem sinkcth 

Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapors descending. 

There enraptured she wanders, and looks at the figures majestic, 240 

Fears not the wingéd crowd, in the midst of them all is her home- 
stead, 

Therefore love and believe; for works will follow spontaneous 

Even as day does the sun: the Right from the Good is an offspring, 

Love in a bodily shape; and Christian works are no more than 

Animate Love and Faith, as flowers are the animate Springtide. 

Works do follow us all unto God; there stand and bear witness 

Not what they seemed,—but what they were only. Blessed is he 


who 

Hears their confession secure; they are mute upon earth until death’s 
hand 

Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye children, does Death e’er alarm 
VOU 

Death is the brother of Love, twin-brother is he, and is only 250 


More austere to behold. With a kiss upon lips that are fading 

Takes he the soul. and departs, and, rocked in the arms of affection, 

Places the ransomed child, new born, *fore the face of its father. 

Sounds of his coming already I hear,—see dimly his pinions, 

Swart as the night, but with stars strewn upon them! I fear not be 
fore him. 

Death is only release, and in mercy is mute. On his bosom 

Freer breathes, in its coolness, my breast; and face to face standing 

Look I on God as He is, a sun unpolluted by vapors; 

Look on the light of the ages I loved, the spirits majestic, 

Nobler, better than I; they stand by the throne all transfigured,  26¢ 


THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD’S SUPPER 797 





Vested in white, and with harps of gold, and are singing an anthem, 

Writ in the climate of heaven, in the language spoken by angels. 

You, in like manner, ye children beloved, He one day shall gather, 

Never forgets He the weary;—then welcome, ye loved ones here- 
after !’ 

Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, forget not the promise, 

Wander from holiness onward to holiness; earth shall ye heed not; 

Earth is but dust and heaven is light; I have pledged you to heaven. 

God of the universe, hear me! thou fountain of Love everlasting, 

Hark to the voice of thy servant! I send up my prayer to thy hea 
ven! 

Let me hereafter not miss at thy throne one spirit of all these, 270 

Whom thou hast given me here! I have loved them all like a father. 

May they bear witness for me, that I taught them the way of salva- 
tion, 

Faithful, so far as I knew, of thy word; again may they know me, 

Fall on their Teacher’s breast, and before thy face may I place them, 

Pure as they now are, but only more tried, and exclaiming with glad- 
ness, 

Father, lo! I am here, and the children, whom thou hast given me!’ 


Weeping he spake in these words; and now at the beck of the old 

man 

Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round the altar’s enclosure. 

Kneeling he read then the prayers of the consecration, and softly 

With him the children read; at the close, with tremulous accents, 280 

Asked he the peace of Heaven, a benediction upon them. 

Now should have ended his task for the day; the following Sunday 

Was for the young appointed to eat of the Lord’s holy Supper. 

Sudden, as struck from the clouds, stood the Teacher silent and laid 
his 

Hand on his forehead, and cast his looks upward; while thoughts 
high and holy 

Flew through the midst of his soul, and his eyes glanced with wonder- 
ful brightness. ; 

‘On the next Sunday, who knows! perhaps I shall rest in the grave. 
yard! 

Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken untimely, 

Bow down his head to the earth; why delay 1? the hour is accom- 


plished. 
Warm is the heart ;—I will! for to-day grows the harvest of heaven. 
What I began accomplish I now; what failing therein is 291 


z, the old man, will answer to God and the reverend father, 

Say to me cnly, ye children, ye denizens new-come in heaven, 

Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of Atonement? 

What it denoteth, that know ye full well, I have told it you often, 

Of the new covenant symbol it is, of Atonement a token, 

Stablished between earth and heaven. Man by his sins and transgres. 
sions ’ 

Far has wandered from God, from his essence. ’T was in the begins 
ning 


798 TRANSLATIONS 





Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he fell, and it hangs its crown o’er the 

Fall to this day; in the Thought is the Fall; in the Heart the Atone- 
ment. 300 

Infinite is the fall,—the Atonement infinite likewise. 

See! behind me, as far as the old man remembers, and forward, 

Far as Hope in her flight can reach with her wearied pinions, 

Sin and Atonement incessant go through the lifetime of mortals. 

Sin is brought forth full-grown: but Atonement sleeps in our bosoms 

Still as the cradled babe; and dreams of heaven and of angels, 

Cannot awake to sensation ; is like the tones in the harp’s strings, 

Spirits imprisoned, that wait evermore the deliverer’s finger. 

Therefore, ye children beloved, descended the Prince of Atonement, 

Woke the slumberer from sleep, and she stands now with eyes all re- 
splendent, 310 

Bright as the vault of the sky, and battles with Sin and o’ercomes her. 

Downward to earth He came and, transfigured, thence reascended, 

Not from the heart in like wise, for there He still lives in the Spirit, 

Loves and atones evermore. So long as Time is, is Atonement. 

Therefore with reverence take this day her visible token. 

Tokens are dead if the things live not. The light everlasting 

Unto the blind is not, but is born of the eye that has vision. 

Neither in bread nor in wine, but in the heart that is hallowed 

Lieth forgiveness enshrined; the intention alone of amendment 

Fruits of the earth ennobles to heavenly things, and removes all 320 

Sin and the guerdon of sin. Only Love with his arms wide extended, 

Penitence weeping and praying; the Will that is tried, and whose 
gold flows 

Purified forth from the flames; in a word, mankind by Atonement 

Breaketh Atonement’s bread, and drinketh Atonement’s wine-cup. 

But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with hate in his bosom, 

Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ’s blessed hody, 

And the Redeemer’s blood! To himself he eateth and drinketh 

Death and doom! And from this, preserve us, thou heavenly Father’ 

Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread of Atonement ?’ 

Thus with emotion he asked, and together answered the children, 330 

* Yes!’ with deep sobs interrupted. Then read he the due supplica- 
tions, 

Read the Form of Communion, and in chimed the organ and anthem: 

‘O Holy Lamb of God, who takest away our transgressions, 

Hear us! give us thy peace! have mercy, have mercy upon us!? 

Tl’ old man, with trembling hand, and heavenly pearls on his eyelids, 

Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt round the mystical symbols. 

Oh, then seemed it to me as if God, with the broad eye of midday, 

Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the trees in the churchyard 

Bowed down their summits of green, and the grass on the graves ’gan 
to shiver. 

But in the children (I noted it well; I knew it) there ran a 340 

Tremor of holy rapture along through their ice-cold members. 

Decked like an altar before them, there stood the green earth, and 
above it 

Heaven opened itself, as of old before Stephen; they saw there 


: 


| 


H 


THE ELECTED KNIGHT 


799 


a ——————————————————— eee 


Radiant ip glory the Father, and on his right hand the Redeemer. 
Under them hear they the clang of harpstrings, and angeis from gold 


clouds 


Beckon to them like brothers, and fan with their pinions of purple. 


Closed was the Teacher’s task, and with heaven in their hearts and 


their faces, 


Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full sorely, 
Downward to kiss that reverend hand, but all of them pressed he 
Moved to his bosom, and laid, with a prayer, his hands full of blessings, 


Now on the holy breast, and now on the innocent tresses, 


KING CHRISTIAN 
(Kone CHRISTIAN STOD VED HZIEN MAST) 
4 NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK 


KING CHRISTIAN stood by the 
lofty mast 
In mist and smoke ; 
His sword was hammering so fast, 
Through Gothie helm and brain it 
passed ; 
Then sank each hostile hulk and 
mast, 
In mist and smoke. 
‘Fly!’ shouted they, ‘fly, he who 
can! 
Who braves of Denmark’s Chris- 
tian 
The stroke?’ 


Nils Juel gave heed to the tem- 
pest’s roar, 
Now is the hour! 
He hoisted his blood-red flag once 
more, 
And smote upon the foe full sore, 
And shouted loud, through the 
tempest’s roar, 
* Now is the hour!? 
‘Fly!’ shouted they, ‘for shelter 
fly! 
Df Denmark’s Juel who can defy 
The power?’ 


North Sea! a glimpse of Wessel 
rent 
Thy murky sky! 


353 


Then champions to thine arms 
were sent; 
Terror and Death glared where he 
went; 
From the waves was heard a wail, 
that rent 
Thy murky sky! 
From Denmark thunders Torden- 
skiol’, 
Let each to Heaven commend his 
- soul, 
And fly! 


Path of the Dane to fame and 
might! 
Dark-rolling wave! 
Receive thy friend, who, scorning 
flight, 
Goes to meet danger with despite, 
Proudly as thou the tempest’s 
might, 
Dark-rolling wave! 
And amid pleasures and alarms, 
And war and victory, be thine 
arms 
My grave! 


THE ELECTED KNIGHT 


(DEN UDKAARNE RIDDER) 


This strange and somewhat mystical 
ballad is from Nyerup and Rahbek’s 
Danske Viser fra Middelulderen. It 
seems to refer to the first preaching of 
Christianity in the North, and to the 
institution of Knight-Errantry. The 
three maidens I suppose to be Faith, 


800 


TRANSLATIONS 





Hope, and Charity. The irregularities 
of the original have been caretully pre- 
served in the translation. H. W. L. 


Sir OLUvUF he rideth over the plain, 
Full seven miles broad and seven 
miles wide, 
But never, ah never can meet with 
the man 
A tilt with him dare ride. 


He saw under the hillside 
A Knight full well equipped ; 
His steed was black, his helm was 
barred ; 
He was riding at full speed. 


He wore upon his spurs 
_ Twelve little golden birds; 
Anon he spurred his steed witha 
clang, 
And there sat all the birds and 
sang. 


He wore upon his mail 
Twelve little golden wheels ; 
Anon in eddies the wild wind blew, 
And round and round the wheels 
they flew. 


He wore befcre his breast 
A lance that was poised in rest; 
And it was sharper than diamond- 
stone, 
It made Sir Oluf’s heart to groan. 


He wore upon his helm 
A wreath of ruddy gold; 
And that gave him the Maidens 
Three, 
The youngest was fair to behold. 


Sir Oluf questioned the Knight 
eftsoon 
If he were come from heaven 
_aOWwn; 
* Art thou Christ of Heaven,’ quoth 
he, 
‘So will I yield me unto thee.’ 


‘IT am not Christ the Great, 
Thou shalt not yield thee yet; 


Iam an Unknown Knight, 
Three modest Maidens have me 
bedight.’ 


‘Art thou a Knight elected, 
And have three maidens thee 
bedight ; 
So shalt thou ride a tilt this day, 
For all the Maidens’ honor !? 


The first tilt they together rode 
They put their steeds to the 
test; 


The second tilt they together rode 


They proved their manhood best 


The third tilt they together rode 
Neither of them would yield; 
The fourth tilt they together rode 

They both fell on the field. 


Now lie the lords upon the plain, 
And their blood runs unto death ; 
Now sit the Maidens in the high 
tower, 
The youngest sorrows till death, 


CHILDHOOD 
(DA JEG VAR LILLE) 
BY JENS IMMANUEL BAGGESEN | 


THERE was a time when I was 
very small, 
When my whole frame was but 
an ell in height ; 
Sweetly, as I recall it, tears do- 
fall, 
And therefore I recall it with ce- 
light. 






I sported in my tender mother’s 
arms, 
And rode a-horseback on best 
father’s knee: . 
Alike were sorrows, passions and 
alarms, 
And gold, and Greek, and love 
unknown to me, 


THE HAPPIEST LAND 


Qe 


Then seemed to me this world far 
less in size, 
Likewise it seemed to me less 
wicked far ; 
Like points in heaven, I saw the 
stars arise, 
And longed for wings that I 
might catch a star. 


T saw the moon behind the island 
fade, 
And thought, ‘Oh, were I on 
that island there, 
I could find out of what the moon 
is made, 
Find out how large it is, how 
round, how fair!’ 


Wondering, I saw God’s_ sun, 
through western skies, 
Sink in the ocean’s golden lap at 
night, 
And yetuponthe morrowearlyrise, 
And paint the eastern heaven 
with crimson light ; 


And thought of God, the gracious 
Heavenly Father, 
Who made me, and that lovely 
sun on high, 
And all those pearls of heaven 
thick-strung together, 
Dropped, clustering, from his 
hand o’er all the sky. 


With childish reverence, my young 
lips did say 
The prayer my pious mother 
taught to me: 
'O gentle God! oh, let me strive 
alway 
Stili to be wise, and good, and 
follow thee!’ 


So prayed I for my father and my 
mother, 
And for my sister, and for all the 
town; 
The king I knew not, and the beg- 
gar-brother, 
Who, bent with age, went, sigh- 
ing, up and down. 





801 
They perished, the blithe days of 
boyhood perished, 
And all the gladness, all the 
peace I knew! 
Now have I but their memory, 
fondly cherished ; — 
God! may I never lose that too! 


FROM THE GERMAN 


THE HAPPIEST LAND 


THERE Sat one day in quiet, 
By an alehouse on the Rhine, 
Four hale and hearty fellows, 
And drank the precious wine. 
The landlord’s daughter filled 
their cups, 
Around the rustic board: 
Then sat they all so calm and still, 
And spake not one rude word. 


But when the maid departed, 
A Swabian raised his hand, 
And Gried, all hot and flushed with 
wine, 
‘Long live the Swabian land! 


‘The greatest kingdom upon earth 
Cannot with that compare ; 
With all the stout and hardy men 
And the nut-brown maidens 
there.’ 


| ‘Ha!’ cried a Saxon, laughing, 


And dashed his beard with 
wine; 

‘I had rather live in Lapland, 

Than that Swabian land of 
thine! 


‘The goodliest land on all this 
earth, 
It is the Saxon land! 
There have I as many maidens 
As fingers on this hand !? 


‘Hold your tongues! both Swabian 
and Saxon!’ 
A bold Bohemian cries; 


802 


TRANSLATIONS 





‘If there ’s a heaven upon this 
earth, 
In Bohemia it lies. 


* There the tailor blows the flute, 
And the cobbler blows the horn, 

And the miner blows the bugle, 
Over mountain gorge and bourn.’ 


Ar j then the landlord’s daughter 
Up to heaven raised her hand, 
And said, ‘ Ye may no more con- 

tend, — 
There lies the happiest land!’ 


THE WAVE 
(Diz WELLE) 
BY CHRISTOPH AUGUST TIEDGE 


* WHITHER, thou turbid wave? 
Whither, with so much haste, 
As if a thief wert thou?’ 


‘Iam the Wave of Life, 
Stained with my margin’s dust; 
From the struggle and the strife 
Of the narrow stream I fly 
To the Sea’s immensity, 

To wash from me the slime 
Of the muddy banks of Time.’ 


THE DEAD 


BY ERNST STOCKMANN 


How they so softly rest, 

All they the holy ones, 

Unto whose dwelling-place 
Now doth my soul draw near! 
How they so softly rest, 
Allin their silent graves, 
Deep to corruption 

Slowly down-sinking ! 


And they no longer weep, 
Here, where complaint is still! 
And they no longer feel, 

Here, where all gladness flies! 


And by the cypresses 
Softly o’ershadowed, 
Until the Angel 

Calls them, they slumber! 


THE BIRD AND THE SHIP 
(ScHIFF UND VOGEL) 
BY WILHELM MULLER 


‘ THE rivers rush into the sea, 
By castle and town they go; 
The winds behind them merrily 
Their noisy trumpets blow. 


‘The clouds are passing far and 
high, 
We little birds in them play; 
And everything, that can sing and 
fly, 
Goes with us, and far away. 


‘I greet thee, bonny boat! 
Whither, or whence, 


With thy fluttering golden 
band ?? — 
‘I greet thee, little bird! To the 
wide sea 


I haste from the narrow Jand. 


‘Full and swollen is every sail; 
I see no longer a hill, 
I have trusted all to the sounding 
gale, 
And it will not let me stand still. 


‘And wilt thou, little bird, go with 
us ? 
Thou mayest stand on the main: 
mast tall, 
For full to sinking is my house 
With merry companions all.’— 


‘T need not and seek not company, 


Bonny boat, I can sing allalone; — 
For the mainmast tall too heavy 


am I, 


Bonny boat, I have wings of my — 


own. 


4 


: 
: 





BEWARE 


803 





‘High over the sails, high over the 
mast, 
Who shall gainsay these joys? 
When thy merry companions are 
still, at last, 
Thou shalt hear the sound of my 
voice. 


*Who neither may rest, nor listen 
may, 
God bless them every one! 
I dart away, in the bright blue 
day, 
And the golden fields of the sun. 


‘Thus do I sing my weary song, 
Wherever the four winds blow ; 
And this same song, my whole life 

long, 
Neither Poet nor Printer may 
know.’ 


WHITHER? 
(WoHIN ?) 
BY WILHELM MULLER 


J HEARD a brooklet gushing 
From its rocky fountain near, 

Down into the valley rushing, 
So fresh and wondrous clear. 


I know not what came o’er me, 
Nor who the counsel gave ; 
But I must hasten downward, 
All with my pilgrim-stave ; 


Downward, and ever farther, 
And ever the brook beside; 

And ever fresher murmured, 
And ever clearer, the tide. 


Is this the way I was going? 
Whither, O brooklet, say! 

Thou hast, with thy soft murmur, 
Murmured my senses away. 


What do I say of a murmur? 
That can no murmur be; 


’Tis the water-nympns, that are 
singing 
Their roundelays under me. 


Let them sing, my friend, let them 
murmur, 
And wander merrily near; 
The wheels of a mill are going 
In every brooklet clear. 


BEWARE! 
(HiT pu picH!) 


I KNOW a maiden fair to see, 
Take care! 
She can both false and friendly 
be, 
Beware! Beware! 
Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee! 


She has two eyes, so soft and 
brown, 
Take care! 
She gives a side-glance and looks 
down, 
Beware! Beware! 
Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee! 


And she has hair of a golden 
hue, 
Take care! 
And what she says, it is not true, 
Beware! Beware! 
Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee! 


She has a bosom as white as snow, 
Take care! 
She knows how much it is best to 
show, 
Beware! Beware! 
Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee! 


She gives thee a garland woven 
fair, 
Take care! 


Bos 





It is a fool’s-cap for thee to wear, 
Beware! Beware! 
Trust her not, 

She is fooling thee! 


SONG OF THE BELL 


BELL! thou soundest merrily, 
When the bridal party 
To the church doth hie! 
Bell! thou soundest solemnly, 
When, on Sabbath morning, 
Fields deserted lie! 


Bell! thou soundest merrily; 
Tellest thou at evening, 
Bec-time draweth nigh! 
Bell! thou soundest mournfully, 
Tellest thou the bitter 
Parting hath gone by! 


Say! how canst thou mourn? 
How canst thou rejoice ? 
Thou art but metal dull! 
And yet all our sorrowings, 
And all our rejoicings, 
Thou dost feel them all! 


God hath wonders many, 
Which we cannot fathom, 
Placed within thy form! 
When the heart is sinking, 
Thou alone canst raise it, 
Trembling in the storm! 


THE CASTLE BY THE SEA 
(Das ScHtoss AM MEERE) 
BY JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND 
HAST thou seen that lordly castle, 
That Castle by the Sea? 
Golden and red above it 
The clouds float gorgeously. 
And fain it would stoop down- 


ward 
To the mirrored wave below ; 


TRANSLATIONS 


=e 





And fain it would soar upward 
In the evening’s crimson glow.’ 


‘Well have I seen that castle, 
That Castle by the Sea, 

And the moon above it standing, 
And the mist rise solemnly.’ 


‘The winds and the waves of 
ocean, 
Had they a merry chime? 
Didst thou hear, from those lofty 
chambers 
Tae harp and the minstrel’s 
rhyme?’ 


‘The winds and the waves of ocean, 
They rested quietly, 
But I heard on the gale a sound of 
wail, 
And tears came to mine eye.’ 


‘And sawest thou on the turrets 
The King and his royal bride? 
And the wave of their crimson 

mantles? 
And the golden crown of pride? 


‘Led they not forth, in rapture, 
A beauteous maiden there ? 

Resplendent as the morning sun, 
Beaming with golden hair?’ 


‘ Well saw I the ancient parents, 
Without the crown of pride; 
They were moving slow, in weeds 
of woe, 
No maiden was by their side!’ 


THE BLACK KNIGHT 
(DER SCHWARZE RITTER) 


BY JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND 


*'T WAS Pentecost, the Feast of 
Gladness, 
When woods and fields put off all 
sadness, 
Thus began the King and spake: 


SONG OF THE 


805 


SILENT LAND 





‘So from the halls 
Of ancient Hofburg’s walls, 
A luxuriant Spring shall break.’ 


Drums and trumpets echo loudly, 
Wave the crimson banners proudly, 
From balcony the King looked 
on; 
In the play of spears, 
Fell all the cavaliers, 
Before the monarch’s stalwart 
son. 


To the barrier of the fight 
Rode at last a sable Knight. 
‘Sir Knight! your name and 
scutcheon, say !? 
‘Should I speak it here, 
Ye would stand aghast with fear; 
Iam a Prince of mighty sway!’ 


When he rode into the lists, 
The arch of heaven grew black 
with mists, 
And the castle ’gan to rock; 
At the first blow, 
Fell the youth from saddle-bow, 
Hardly rises from the shock. 


Pipe and viol call the dances, 
Torch-light through the high halls 
glances ; 
Waves a mighty shadow in; 
With manner bland 
Doth ask the maiden’s hand, 
Doth with her the dance begin. 


Danced in sable iron sark, 

Danced a measure weird and dark, 
Coldly clasped her limbs around; 

From breast and hair 

Down fall from her the fair 
Flowerets, faded, to the ground. 


To the sumptuous banquet came 
Every Knight and every Dame; 
*Twixt son and daughter all dis- 
traught, 
With mournful mind 
The ancient King reclined, 
Gazed at them in silent thought. 


Pale the children both did look, 
But the guest a beaker took: 
‘Golden wine will make you 
whole!’ 
The children drank, 
Gave many a courteous thank: 
‘Oh, that draught was very 
cool!’ 


Each the father’s breast embraces, 

Son and daughter; and their faces 
Colorless grow utterly ; 

Whichever way 

Looks the fear-struick father gray, 
He beholds his children die. 


| ‘Woe! the blessed children both 


Takest thou in the joy of youth; 
Take me, too, the joyless father!’ 

Spake the grim Guest, 

From his hollow, cavernous breast. 
‘Roses in the spring I gather!’ 


SONG OF THE SILENT LAND 
(Lizp: Ins sTinLtE LAND) 


BY JOHANN GAUDENZ VON 
SALIS-SEEWIS 


INTO the Silent Land! 

Ah! who shall lead us thither? 

Clouds in the evening sky more 
darkly gather, 

And shattered wrecks lie thicker 
on the strand. 

Who leads us with a gentle hand 

Thither, oh, thither, 

Into the Silent Land ? 


Into the Silent Land! 

To you, ye boundless regions 

Of all perfection! Tender morn- 
ing-visions 

Of beauteous souls! The Future’s 
pledge and band! 

Who in Life’s battle firm doth 
stand, 

Shall bear Hope’s tender blossoms 

Into the Silent Land! 


Bo6 





O Land! O Land! 

For all the broken-hearted 

The mildest herald by our fate al- 
lotted, 

Beckons, and with inverted torch 
doth stand 

To lead us with a gentle hand 

To the land of the great Departed, 

Into the Silent Land! 


THE LUCK OF EDENHALL 
(Das Gutick yon EDENHALL) 
BY JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND 


Or Edenhall, the youthful Lord 

Bids sound the festal trumpet’s 
call; 

He rises at the banquet board, 

And cries, ’mid the drunken re- 
vellers all, 

‘Now bring me the Luck of Eden- 
hall!? 


The butler hears the words with 
pain, 

The house’s oldest seneschal, 

Takes slow from its silken cloth 
again 

The drinking-glass of crystal tall ; 

They call it the Luck of Edenhall. 


Then said the Lord: ‘ This glass 
to praise, 

Fill with red wine from Portugal!’ 

The graybeard with trembling 
hand obeys; 

A purple light shines over all, 

It beams from the Luck of Eden- 
hall. 


Then speaks the Lord, and waves 
it light: 

‘This glass of flashing crystal tall 

Gave to my sires the Fountain- 
Sprite ; 

She wrote in it, Jf this glass doth 
fall, 

Farewell then, O Luck of Eden- 
hall{ 


TRANSLATIONS 


—T 


‘°T was right a goblet the Fate 
should be 

Of the joyous race of Edenhall! 

Deep draughts drink we right 
willingly ; 

And willingly ring, with merry 
call, 

Kling! klang! to the 
Edenhall!? 


Luck of 


First rings it deep, and full, and 
mild, 

Like to the song of a nightingale ; 

Then like the roar of a torrent 
wild; 

Then mutters at last like the 
thundevr’s fall, 

The glorious Luck of Edenhall. 


‘For its keeper takes a race of 
might, 

The fragile goblet of crystal tall; 

It has lasted longer than is right; 

Kling! klang! — with a harder 
blow than all 

Will I try the Luck of Edenhall!? 


As the goblet ringing flies apart, 

Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall; 

And through the rift, the wild 
flames start ; 

The guests in dust are scattered 
all, - 

With the breaking Luck of Eden. 
hall! 


In storms the foe, with fire and 
sword; . 

He in the night had scaled the 
wall, 

Slain by the sword lies the youth 
ful Lord, 

But holds in his hand the ecryste‘ 
tall, 

The shattered Luck of Edenhall 


On the morrow the butler grope 
alone, 

The graybeard in the desert hall, 

He seeks his Lord’s burnt skele 
ton, 


THE HEMLOCK TREE 


807 





He seeks in the dismal ruin’s fall 
The shards of the Luck of Edeun- 
hall 


*The stone wall,’ saith he, ‘ doth 
fall aside, 

Down must the stately columns 
fall; 

Glass is this earth’s Luck and 
Pride; 

In atoms shall fall this earthly 
ball 

One day like the Luck of Eden- 
hall!’ 


THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR 
(DER JUNGGESELL) 
BY GUSTAV PFIZER 


A YouTH, light-hearted and con- 
tent, 
I wander through the world; 
Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent 
And straight again is furled. 


Yet oft I dream, that once a wife 
Close in my heart was locked, 

And in the sweet repose of life 
A blessed child I rocked. 


I wake! Away that dream,— 
away! 
Too long did it remain! 
So long, that both by night and day 
It ever comes again. 


The end lies ever in my thought; 
To a grave so cold and deep 

The mother beautiful was brought; 
Then dropt the child asleep. 


But now the dream is wholly o’er, 
I bathe mine eyes and see; 
And wander through the world 
once more, 
A youth so light and free. 


Two locks—and they are won- 
drous fair — 
Left me that vision mild; 


The brown is from the mother’s 
hair, 
The blond is from the child. 


And when I see that lock of gold, 
Pale grows the evening-red ; 

And when the dark lock I behold; 
I wish that I were dead. 


THE HEMLOCK TREE 


O HEMLOCK tree! O hemlock 
tree! how faithful are thy 


branches! 

Green not alone in summer 
time, 

But in the winter’s frost and 
rime! 

O hemlock tree! O hemlock tree! 

how faithful are thy 
branches! 


O maiden fair! O maiden fair! how 
faithless is thy bosom! 
To love me in prosperity, 
And leave me in adversity! 
O maiden fair! Omaiden fair! how 
faithless is thy bosom! 


The nightingale, the nightingale, 
thou tak’st for thine exam- 
ple! 

So long as summer laughs sh 
sings, 

But in the autumn spreads her 
wings. 

The nightingale, the nightingale, 
thou tak’st for thine exam- 
ple! 


The meadow brook, the meadow 
brook, is mirror of thy false. 
hood! 

It flows so long as falls the 
rain, 

In drought its springs soon dry 
again. 

The meadow brook, the meadow 
brook, is mirror of thy false 
hood! 


808 


TRANSLATIONS 





ANNIE OF THARAW 
(ANKE VON THARAU) 
BY SIMON DACH 


ANNIE of Tharaw, my true love 
of old, 

She is my life, and my goods, and 
my gold. 


Annie of Tharaw her heart once 
again 

To me has surrendered in joy and 
in pain. 


Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my 
good, 

Thou, O my soul, my flesh, and my 
blood! 


Then come the wild weather, come 
sleet or come snow, 

We will stand by each other, how- 
ever it blow. 


Oppression and sickness, and sor- 
row, and pain 

Shall be to our true love as links 
to the chain. 


As the palm-tree standeth so 
straight and so tall, 

The more the hail beats, and the 
more the rains fall, — 


So love in our hearts shall grow 
mighty and strong, 

Through crosses, through sorrows, 
through manifold wrong. 


Shouldst thou be torn from me to 
wander alone 

In a desolate land where the sun 
is scarce known, — 


Through forests Ill follow, and 
where the sea flows. , 
Through ice, and through iron, 
through armies of foes. 


Annie of Tharaw, my light and my 
sun, 

The threads of our two lives are 
woven in one. 


Whate’er I have bidden thee thou 
hast obeyed, 

Whatever forbidden thou hast not 
gainsaid. 


How in the turmoil of life can love 
stand, 

Where there is not one heart, and 
one mouth, and one hand? 


Some seek for dissension, and 
trouble, and strife ; 

Like a dog and a cat live such man 
and wife. 


Annie of Tharaw, such is not our 
love ; 

Thou art my lambkin, my chick, 
and my dove. 


Whate’er my desire is, in thine 

; may be seen; 

I am king of the household, and 
thou art its queen. 


It is this, O my Annie, my heart’s 
sweetest rest, 

That makes of us twain but one 
soul in one breast. 


This turns to a heaven the hut 
where we dwell; 

While wrangling soon changes a 
home to a hell. 


THE STATUE OVER THE 
CATHEDRAL DOOR 
(Das STEINBILD AM Dome) 
BY JULIUS MOSEN 
FORMS of saints and kings are 


standing 
The cathedral door above; 


POETIC APHORISMS 


809 





Yet I saw but one among them 
Who hath soothed my soul with 
love. 


In his mantle, — wound about him, 


As their robes the sowers 
wind, — 
Bore he swallows and their fledg- 
lings, 
Flowers and weeds of every 
kind. 


And so stands he calm and child- 
like, 
High in wind and tempest wild ; 
Oh, were I like him exalted, 
I would be like him a child! 


And my songs, — green leaves and 
blossoms, — 
To the doors of heaven would 
bear, 
Calling even in storm and tempest, 
Round me still these birds of 
air. 


THE LEGEND OF THE CROSS- 
: BILL 
(DER KREUZSCHNABEL, No. 3) 
BY JULIUS MOSEN 


ON the cross the dying Saviour 
Heavenward lifts his eyelids 


calm, 
Feels, but scarcely feels, a trem- 
bling 
In his pierced and bleeding 
palm. 


And by all the world forsaken, 
Sees He how with zealous care 
At the ruthless nail of iron 
A little bird is striving there. 


Stained with blood and never tir- 
ing, 
With its beak it doth not cease, 


From the cross *t would free the 
Saviour, 
Its Creator’s Son release. 


And the Saviour speaks in mild. 
ness: 
‘Blest be thou of all the good! 
Bear, as token of this moment, 
Marks of blood and holy rood!? 


And that bird is called the cross 
bill; 
Covered all with blood so clear 
In the groves of pine it singeth 
Songs, like legends, strange to 
hear. 


THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS 
BY HEINRICH HEINE 


THE Sea hath its pearls, 
The heaven hath its stars; 
But my heart, my heart, 
My heart hath its love. 


Great are the sea and the hea- 
ven, 
Yet greater is my heart; 
And fairer than pearls and stars 
Flashes and beams my love. 


Thou little, youthful maiden, 
Come unto my great heart ; 
My heart, and the sea, and the 
heaven 
Are melting away with love! 


POETIC APHORISMS 


FROM THE SINNGEDICHTE OF 
FRIEDRICH VON LOGAU 
MONEY 


WHEREUNTO is money good? 
Who has it not wants hardihood, 


810 








Who has it has much trouble and 
care, ; 
Who once has had it has despair. 


THE BEST MEDICINES 
Joy and Temperance and Repose 
Slam the door on the doctor’s nose. 


SIN 
Man-like.is it to fall into sin, 
Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, 
Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, 
God-like is it all sin to leave. 


POVERTY AND BLINDNESS 


A blind man is a poor man, and 
blind a poor man is; 

For the former seeth no man, and 
the latter no man sees. 


LAW OF LIFE 


Live I, so live I, 

To my Lord heartily, 
Tomy Prince faithfully, 
To my Neighbor honestly, 
Die I, so die f. 


CREEDS 
Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all 
these creeds and doctrines 
three 
Extant are; but still the doubt 
is, where Christianity may 
be. 


THE RESTLESS HEART 


A mill-stone and the human heart 
are driven ever round ; 

If they have nothing else to grind, 
they must themselves be 
ground. 


CHRISTIAN LOVE 


Whilom Love was like a fire, and 
warmth and comfort it be- 
spoke; 

But, alas! it now is quenched, and 
only bites us, like the smoke. 


TRANSLATIONS 





ART AND TACT 


Intelligence and courtesy not ak 
ways are combined ; 

Often in a wooden house a golden 
room we find. 


RETRIBUTION 


| Though the mills of God grind 


slowly, yet they grind ex- 
ceeding small; 

Though with patience he stands 
waiting, with exactness 
grinds he all. 


TRUTH 
When by night the frogs are croak- 
ing, kindle but a torch’s fire, 
Ha! how soon they all are si- 
lent! Thus Truth silences - 
the liar. 


RHYMES 


If perhaps these rhymes of mine 
should sound not well in 
strangers’ ears, 

They have only to bethink them 
that it happens so with 
theirs ; 

For so long as words, like mor- 
tals, call a fatherland their 
own, 

They will be most highly valued 
where they are best and long. 
est known. 


SILENT LOVE 


WHO love would seek, 
Let him love evermore 
And seldom speak ; 
For in love’s domain 
Silence must reign ; 
Or it brings the heart 
Smart 
And pain, 


REMORSE 





BLESSED ARE THE DEAD 


(SELIG SIND, DIE IN DEM HERRN 
STERBEN) 


BY SIMON DACH 

On, how blest are ye whose toils 
are ended! 

Who, through death, have unto 
God ascended! 

Ye have arisen 

From the cares which keep us still 
in prison. 


We are Stillas ina dungeon living, 

Still oppressed with .sorrow and 
misgiving ; 

Our undertakings 

Are but toils, and troubles, and 
heart-breakings. 


Ye, meanwhile, are in your cham- 
bers sleeping, 

Quiet, and set free from all our 
weeping ; 

No cross nor trial 

Hinders your enjoyments with 
denial. 


Christ has wiped away your tears 
FOLGVer;: 

Ye have that for which we still 
endeavor. \ 

To you are chanted 

Songs which yet no mortal ear 
have haunted, 


Ah! who would not, then, depart 
with gladness, 

To inherit heaven for earthly sad- 
ness? 

Who here would languish 

Longer in bewailing and in an- 
guish? 


Come, O Christ, and loose the 
chains that bind us! 

Lead us forth, and cast this world 
behind us! 

With thee, the Anointed, 

Finds the soul its joy and rest ap- 
pointed. 


811 


WANDERER’S NIGHT-SONGS 


NACHTLIED EIn 


GLEICHES) 


(W ANDRERS AND 


BY JOHANN WOLFGANG VON 
GOETHE 


I 


THOv that from the heavens art, 
Every pain and sorrow stillest, 
And the doubly wretched heart 
Doubly with refreshment fillest, 
Iam weary with contending! 
Why this rapture and unrest ? 
Peace descending 

Come, ah, come into my breast! 


II 


O’er all the hill-tops 

Is quiet now, 

In all the tree-tops 

Hearest thou 

Hardly a breath ; 

The birds are asleep in the trees: 
Wait; soon like these 

Thou too shalt rest. 


REMORSE 


(Mut anp UnmuvT) 
BY AUGUST VON PLATEN 


How I started up in the night, in 
the night, 
Drawn on without rest or re- 
prieval! 
The streets, with their watchmen, 
were lost to my sight, 
As I wandered so light 
In the night, in the night, 
Through the gate with the arch 
medizeval, 


The mill-brook rushed from the 
rocky height, 
I leaned o’er the bridge in my 
yearning ; 
Deep under me watched I the 
waves in their flight, 


812 


TRANSLATIONS 





As they glided so light 
In the night, in the night, 
Yet backward not one was return- 
ing. 


O’erhead were revolving, so count- 
less and bright, 
The stars in melodious exist- 
ence; 
And with them the moon, more 
serenely bedight ; 
They sparkled so light 
In the night, in the night, 
Through the magical, measureless 
distance. 


And upward I gazed in the night, 
in the night, 
And again on the waves in their 
fleeting ; 
Ah woe! thou hast wasted thy 
days in delight, 
Now silence thou light, 
In the night, in the night, 
The remorse in thy heart that is 
beating. 


FORSAKEN 


SOMETHING the heart must have 
to cherish, 
Must love and joy and sorrow 
learn, 
Something with passion clasp, or 
perish, 
And in itself to ashes burn. 


So to this child my heart is clinging, 
And its frank eyes, with look 
intense, 
Me from a world of sin are bring- 
ing 
Back to a world of innocence. 


Disdain must thou endure forever; 
Strong may thy heart in danger 
be! 
Thou shalt not fail! but ah, be 
never 
False as thy father was to me. 


Never will I forsake thee, faithless 
And thou thy mother ne’er for 
sake, 
Until her lips are white and breath. 
less, 
Until in death her eyes shall 
break. 


ALLAH 


BY SIEGFRIED AUGUST MAHL: 
MANN 


ALLAH gives light in darkness, 
Allah gives rest in pain, 
Cheeks that are white with weep- 
ing 
Allah paints red again. 


The flowers and the blossoms 
wither, 
Years vanish with flying feet; 
But my heart will live on forever, 
That here in sadness beat. 


Gladly to Allah’s dwelling 
Yonder would I take flight; 
There will the darkness vanish, 

There will my eyes have sight. 


FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON 
THE GRAVE 


For thee was a house built 
Ere thou wast born, 

For thee was a mould meant 
Ere thou of mother camest. 
But it is not made ready, 
Nor its depth measured, 
Nor is it seen 

How long it shall be. 

Now I bring thee 

Where thou shalt be; 

Now I shall measure thee, 
And the mould afterwards, 


Thy house is not 
Highly timbered, 


BEOWULF’S EXPEDITION TO HEORT 813 


It is unhigh and low; 
When thou art therein, 
The heel-ways are low, 
The side-ways unhigh. 
The roof is built 

Thy breast full nigh, 
So thou shalt in mould 
Dwell full cold, 

Dimly and dark. 


Doorless is that house, 
And dark it is within; 
There thou art fast detained 
And Death hath the key. 
Loathsome is that earth-house, 
And grim within to dwell. 
There thou shalt dwell, 
And worms shall divide thee. 


Thus thou art laid, 
And leavest thy friends; 
Thou hast no friend, 
Who will come to thee, 
Who will ever see 
How that house pleaseth thee; 
Who will ever open 
The door for thee, 
And descend after thee ; 
For soon thou art loathsome 
And hateful to see. 


BEOWULF’S EXPEDITION TO 
HEORT 


THUS then, much care-worn, 
The son of Healfden 
Sorrowed evermore, 

Nor might the prudent hero 
His woes avert. 

The war was too hard, 

Too loath and longsome, 
That on the people came, 
Dire wrath and grim, 

Of night-woes the worst. 10 
This from home heard 
Higelac’s Thane, 

Good among the Goths, 
Grendel’s deeds. 

He was of mankind 

In might the strongest, 





At that day 


Of this life, 

Noble and stalwart. 

He bade him a sea-ship, 20 
A goodly one, prepare. 

Quoth he, the war-king, 

Over the swan’s road, 

Seek he would 

The mighty monarch, 

Since he wanted men. 

For him that journey 

His prudent fellows 

Straight made ready, 

Those that loved him. 30 
They excited their souls, 

The omen they beheld. 

Had the good-man 

Of the Gothic people 
Champions chosen, 

Of those that keenest 

He might find, 

Some fifteen men. 

The sea-wood sought he. 

The warrior showed, 40 
Sea-crafty man ! 

The land-marks, 

And first went forth. 

The ship was on the waves, 
Boat under the cliffs. 

The barons ready 

To the prow mounted. 

The streams they whirled 

The sea against the sands. 

The chieftains bore 50 
On the naked breast 

Bright ornaments, 

War-gear, Goth-like. 

The men shoved off, 

Men on their willing way, 

The bounden wood. 

Then went over the sea-waves, 
Hurried by the wind, 
The ship with foamy neck, 
Most like a sea-fowl, 60 
Till about one hour 
Of the second day 
The curved prow 
Had passed onward 
So that the sailors 
The land saw, 

The shore-cliffs shining, 


B14 TRANSLATIONS 





Mountains steep, 

And broad sea-noses. 

Then was the sea-sailing 70 

Of the Earl at an end. 
Then up speedily 

The Weather people 

On the land went, 

The sea-bark moored, 

Their mail-sarks shook, 

Their war-weeds. 

God thanked they, 

That to them the sea-journey 

Easy had been. 80 
Then from the wall beheld 

The warden of the Scyldings, 

He who the sea-clifts 

Had in his keeping, 

Bear o’er the balks 

The bright shields, 

The war-weapons speedily. 

Him the doubt disturbed 

In his mind’s thought, 

What these men might be. go 
Went then to the shore, 

On his steed riding 

The Thane of Hrothgar. 

Before the host he shook 

His wardeu’s-staff in hand, 

In measured words demanded: 
‘What men are ye 

War-gear wearing, 

Host in harness, 

Who thus the brown keel 100 

. Over the water-street 

Leading come 

Hither over the sea? 

I these boundaries 

As shore-warden hold, 

That in the Land of the Danes 

Nothing loathsome 

With a ship-crew 

Scathe us might. ... 

Ne’er saw I mightier 110 

. Earl upon earth 

Than is your own, 

Hero in harness. 

Not seldom this warrior 

Is in weapons distinguished ; 

Never his beauty belies him, 

His peerless countenance! 

Now would I fain 





Your origin know, 

Ere ye forth 12a 
AS false spies 

Into the Land of the Danes 
Farther fare. 

Now, ye dwellers afar-off ! 

Ye sailors of the sea! 

Listen to my 

One-fold thought. 

Quickest is best 

To make known 

Whence your coming may be.’ 


THE SOUL’S COMPLAINT 
AGAINST THE BODY 


FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON 


MuvcCH it behoveth 

Each one of mortals, 
That he his soul’s journey 
In himself ponder, 

How deep it may be. 
When Death cometh, 

The bonds he breaketh 
By which were united 
The soul and the body. 


Long it is thenceforth 
Ere the soul taketh 
From God himself 

Its woe or its weal; 

As in the world erst, 
Even in its earth-vessel, 
It wrought before. 


The soul shall come 
Wailing with loud voice, 
After a sennight, 

The soul, to find 

The body 

That it erst dwelt in ;— 
Three hundred winters, 
Unless ere that worketh 
The Eternal Lord, 

The Almighty God, 

The end of the world. 


Crieth then, so care-worn, 
With cold utterance, 


THE RETURN OF SPRING 


815 





And speaketh grimly, 

The ghost to the dust: 

‘Dry dust! thou dreary one! 
How little didst thou labor for me! 
In the foulness of earth 
Thou all wearest away 

Like to the loam! 

Little didst thou think 

How thy soul’s journey 
Would be thereafter, 

When from the body 

It should be led forth.’ 


FROM THE FRENCH 


SONG 
FROM THE PARADISE OF LOVE 


HARK! hark! 
Pretty lark! 
Little heedest thou my pain! 
But if to these longing arms 
Pitying Love would yield the 
charms 
Of the fair 
With smiling air, 
Blithe would beat my heart again. 


Hark! hark! 

Pretty lark ! ; 
Little heedest thou my pain! 
Love may force me still to bear, 
While he lists, consuming care; 

But in anguish 

Though I languish, 
Faithful shall my heart remain. 


Hark! hark! 
Pretty lark! 
Little heedest thou my pain! 
Thencease, Love, totorment meso; 
But rather than all thoughts fore. 
go 
Of the fair 
With flaxen hair, 
Give me back her frowns again. 
Hark! hark! 
Pretty lark! 
Little heedest thou my pain! 


SONG 


AND whither goest thou, gentle 
sigh, 
Breathed so softly in my ear? 
Say, dost thou bear his fate se- 
vere 
To Love’s poor martyr doomed to 
die? 
Come, tell me quickly, —do not lie; 
What secret message bring’s* 
thou here ? 
And whither goest thou, gentle 
sigh, 
Breathed so softly in my ear? 
May Heaven conduct thee to thy 
will, 
And safely speed thee on thy 
way ; 
This only I would humbly 
pray, — 
Pierce deep, — but oh! forbear to 
kill. 
And whither goest thou, gentle 
sigh, 
Breathed so softly in my ear? 


THE RETURN OF SPRING 
(RENOUVEAU) 
BY CHARLES D’ORLEANS 


Now Time throws off his cloak 
again 

Of ermined frost, and wind, and 
rain, 

And clothes him in the embroidery 

Of glittering sun and clear blue 
sky. 

With beast and bird the forest 
rings, 

Each in his jargon eries or sings; 

And Time throws off his cluak 
again 

Of ermined frost, and wind, and 
rain. 


River, and fount, and tinkling 
brook 
Wear in their dainty livery 


816 


TRANSLATIONS 





Drops of silver jewelry ; 

In new-made suit they merry look ;: 

And ‘Time throws off his cloak 
again 

Of ermined frost, and wind, and 
rain. 


SPRING 
BY CHARLES D’ORLEANS 


GENTLE Spring! in sunshine clad, 


Well dost thou thy power dis-: 


play! 

For Winter maketh the light heart 
sad, 

And thou, thou makest the sad 

heart gay. 

He sees thee, and calls to his 
gloomy train, 

The sleet, and the snow, and the 
wind, and the rain; 


And they shrink away, and they |” 


flee in fear, 


When thy merry step draws 


hear. 


Winter giveth the fields and the 
trees, so old, 
Their beards of 
snow; 
And the rain, it raineth so fast and 
cold, 
We must cower over the embers 
low; 
And, snugly housed from the wind 
and weather, 
Mope like birds that are changing 
feather. 
But the storm retires, and the sky 
grows clear, 
When thy merry step draws 
near. 


icicles and 


Winter maketh the sun in the 
gloomy sky 
Wrap him round with a mantle 
of cloud; 
But, Heaven be praised, thy step 
is nigh; 


Thou tearest away the mournful 
‘shroud, 
And the earth looks bright, and 
Winter surly, 
Who has toiled for naught both 
late and early, 
Is banished afar by the new-born 
year, 
When thy merry step draws near. 


THE CHILD ASLEEP 
(VBRSLETS A MON PREMIER Nk) 
BY CLOTILDE DE SURVILLE 


SWEET babe! true portrait of 
thy father’s face, 
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips 
have pressed ! 
little one; and closely, 
gently place 
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mo- 
ther’s breast. 


Sleep, 


Upon that tender eye, my little 
friend, 
Soft sleep shall come, that com- 
eth not to me! 
I watch to see thee, nourish thee, 
defend; 
*Tis sweet to watch for thee, 
alone for thee! 


His arms fall down; sleep sits 
upon his brow; 
His eye is closed ; he sleeps, nor 
dreams of harm. 
Wore not his cheek the apple’s 
ruddy glow, 
Would you not say he slept on 
Death’s cold arm? 


Awake, my boy! I tremble with 


affright! 
Awake, and chase this fatal 
thought! Unclose 


Thine eye but for one moment on 
the light! 
Even at the price of thine, give 
me repose! 


DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP TURPIN 


817 





Sweet error! he but slept, I 
breathe again; 
Come. gentle dreams, the hour 
of sleep beguile! 
Oh, when shall he, for whom I sigh 
in vain, 
Beside me watch to see thy wak- 
ing smile ? 


DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP 
TURPIN 


FROM THE CHANSON DE RO- 
LAND 


THE Archbishop, whom God loved 
in high degree, 

Beheld his wounds all bleeding 
fresh and free; 

And then his cheek more ghastly 
grew and wan, 

And a faint shudder through his 
members ran. 

Upon the battle-field his knee was 
bent; 

Brave Roland saw, and to his suc- 
cor went, 

Straightway his helmet from his 
brow unlaced, 

And tore the shining hauberk from 
his breast. 

Then raising in his arms the man 
of God, 

Gently he laid him on the verdant 
sod. 

‘Rest, Sire,’ he cried, — for rest thy 
suffering needs.’ 

The priest replied, ‘Think but of 
warlike deeds ! 

The field is ours; well may we 
boast this strife! 

But death steals‘on,— there is no 
hope of life ; 

In paradise, where Almoners live 
again, 

There are our couches spread, 
there shall we rest from pain.’ 


Sore Roland grieved; nor marvel 
I, alas! 


That thrice he swooned upon the 
thick green grass. 

When he revived, with a loud 
voice cried he, 

‘O Heavenly Father! 
Marie! 

Why lingers death to lay me in my 
grave! 

Beloved France! how have the 
good and brave 

Been torn from thee, and left thee 
weak and poor!’ 

Then thoughts of Aude, his lady- 
love, came o’er 

His spirit, and he whispered soft 
and slow, 

‘My gentle friend ! — what parting 
full of woe! 

Never so true a liegeman shalt 
thou see ; — 

Whate’er my fate, Christ’s benison 
on thee! 

Christ, who did save from realms 
of woe beneath, 

The Hebrew Prophets from the 
second death.’ 


Holy Saint 


Then to the Paladins, whom well 
he knew, 

He went, and one by one unaided 
drew 

To Turpin’s side, well skilled in 
ghostly lore ;— 

No heart had he to smile, but, 
weeping sore, 

He blessed them in God’s name, 
with faith that he 

Would soon vouchsafe to thema 
glad eternity. 


The Archbishop, then, on whom 
God’s benison rest, 

Exhausted, bowed his head upon 
his breast ; 

His mouth was full of dust and 
clotted gore, 

And many a wound his swollen 
visage bore. 

Slow beats his heart, his panting 
bosom heaves. 


818 


TRANSLATIONS 





Death comes apace, —no hope of 
cure relieves. 

Towards heaven he raised his dy- 
ing hands and prayed 

That God, who for our sins was 
mortal made, 

Born of the Virgin, scorned and 
crucified, 

In paradise would place him by 
his side. 


Then Turpin died in service of 
Charlon, 

In battle great and eke great ori- 
son ;— 

’Gainst Pagan host alway strong 
champion ; 

God grant to him his holy benison. 


THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL 
CUILLE 


BY JACQUES JASMIN 


Only the Lowland’ tongue of Scotland 
might 

Rehearse this little tragedy aright ; 

Let me attempt it withan English quill; 

And take, O Reader, for the deed the 


will. 
I 
AT the foot of the mountain 
height 
Where is perched Castel 
Cuille, 


When the apple, the plum, and the 
almond tree 
In the plain below were grow- 
ing white, 
This is the song one might 
perceive 
On a Wednesday morn of St. Jo- 
seph’s Eve: 


The roads should blossom, the 
roads should bloom, 

So fair a bride shall leave her 
home! 

Should blossom and bloom with 
garlands gay, 

So fair a bride shall pass to- 
day! 10 


This old Te Deum, rustic rites at 
tending, 
Seemed from the clouds de 
scending; 
When Jo! a merry company 
Of rosy village girls, clean as the 
eye, 
Each one with her attendant 
swain, 
Came to the cliff, all singing the 
same strain ; 
Resembling there, so near unto the 
sky, 
Rejoicing angels, that kind heaven 
had sent 
For their delight and our encour- 
agement. 
Together blending, 20 
And soon descending 
The narrow sweep 
Of the hillside steep, 
They wind aslant 
Towards Saint Amant, 
Through leafy alleys 
Of verdurous valleys 
With merry sallies, 
Singing their chant: 


The roads should blossom, the 


roads should bloom, 30 
So fair a bride shall leave her 
home! 


Should blossom and bloom with 
garlands gay, 
So fair a bride shall pass to- 


day! 

It is Baptiste, and his affianced 
maiden, 

With garlands for the bridal 
laden! 


The sky was blue; without one 
cloud of gloom, 
The sun of March was shining 
brightly, 
And to the air the freshening 
wind gave lightly 
Its breathings of perfume. 


When one beholds the dusky 
hedges blossom, 46 


THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL CUILLE 


81g 





A rustic bridal, ah! how sweet 
itis! 
To sounds of joyous melodies, 
That touch with tenderness the 
trembling bosom, 
A band of maidens 
Gayly frolicking, 
A band of youngsters 
Wildly rollicking! 
Kissing, 
Caressing, 
With fingers pressing, 50 
Till in the veriest 
Madness of mirth, as they 
dance, 
They retreat and advance, 
Trying whose laugh shall be 
loudest and merriest; 
While the Daas, with roguish 
eyes, 
Sporting with them, now es- 
capes and cries: 
* Those who catch me 
Married verily 
This year shall be!’ 59 


And all pursue with eager haste, 

And all attain what they pursue, 

And touch her pretty apron fresh 
and new, 

And the linen kirtle round her 
waist. 


Meanwhile, whence comes it that 
among 

These youthful maidens fresh and 
fair, 

So joyous, with such laughing air, 

Baptiste stands sighing, with si- 
lent tongue? 

And yet the bride is fair and 


young! 
Is it Saint Joseph would say to us 
all, 
That love, o’er-hasty, precedeth a 
fall? 70 
Oh no! for a maiden frail, I 
trow, 


Never bore so lofty a brow! 
What lovers! they give not a sin- 
gle caress! 


To see them so careless and cold 
to-day, 
These are grand people, one 
would say. 
What ails Baptiste? what grief 
doth him oppress ? 


It is, that, half-way up the 
hill, 

In yon cottage, by whose walls 

Stand the cart-house and the 
Stalls, 

Dwelleth the blind orphan 
still, So 

Daughter of a veteran old ; 

And you must know, one year 


ago, 

That, Margaret, the young and 
tender, 

Was the village pride and 
splendor, 


And Baptiste her lover bold. 

Love, the deceiver, them en- 
snared ; 

For them the altar was pre- 
pared ; 

But alas! the summer’s blight, 

The dread disease that none 
can stay, 

The pestilence that walks ie 
night, 

Took the young bride’s sight 
away. 


All at the father’s stern command 
was changed ; 
Their peace was gone, but not 
their love estranged. 
Wearied at home, erelong the 
lover fled; 
Returned but three short days 
ago, 
The golden chain they round 
him throw, 
He is enticed, and onward led 
To marry Angela, and yet 
Is thinking ever of Marga. 
ret. 99 


Then suddenly a maiden cried. 
‘Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate! 


820 


TRANSLATIONS 





Here comes the cripple Jane! 
And by a fountain’s side 
A woman, bent and gray with 


years, 

Under the mulberry trees ap- 
pears, 

And all towards her run, as 
fleet 

As had they wings upon their 
feet. 

It is that Jane, the cripple 
Jane, 

Is a soothsayer, wary and 
kind. 

She telleth fortunes, and none 

complain. 

She promises one a village 
swain, 110 


Another a happy wedding-day, 

And the bride a lovely boy 
Straightway. 

All comes to pass as she 
avers; 

She never deceives, she never 
errs. 


But for this once the village 
seer 

Wears a countenance severe, 

And from beneath her eyebrows 

thin and white 

Her two eyes flash like can- 
nons bright 

Aimed at the bridegroom in 
waistcoat blue, 

Who, like a statue, stands in 


view; 120 

Changing color, as well he 
might, 

When the beldame wrinkled 
and gray 

Takes the young bride by the 
hand, 

And, with the tip of her reedy 
wand 

Making the sign of the cross, 
doth say : — 


‘Thoughtless Angela, beware ! 
Lest, when thou weddest this 
false bridegroom, 


Thou diggest for thyself a 
tomb !’ 
And she was silent; and the maid- 
ens fair 
Saw from each eye escape a 
swollen tear; 130 
But on a little streamlet silver- 
clear, 
What are two drops of turbid 
rain? 
Saddened a moment, the bridal 
train 
Resumed the dance and song 
again; 
The bridegroom only was pale 
with fear ; — 
And down green alleys 
Of verdurous valleys, 
With merry sallies, 
They sang the refrain :— 


The roads should blossom, the 
roads should bloom, 140 

So fair a bride shall leave her 
home! 

Should blossom and bloom with 
garlands gay, 

So fair a bride shall pass to- 
day! 


II 


And by suffering worn and weary, 

But beautiful as some fair angel 
yet, 

Thus lamented Margaret, 

In her cottage lone and dreary : — 


‘He has arrived! arrived at 
last! 
Yet Jane has named him not these 
three days past; 
Arrived! yet keeps aloof so 


far! 150 
And knows that of my night he is 
the star! 


Knows that long months I wait 
alone, benighted, 

And count the moments since he 
went away! 


THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL CUILLE 821 


Come! keep the promise of that | Away! he will return! I do but 


happier day, 
That I may Keep the faith to thee 
I plighted! 


What joy have I without thee? | 


what delight? 
Grief wastes my life, and makes it 
misery ; 


Day for the others ever, but for |. 


me 
Forever night! forever night! 
When he is gone ’tis dark! my 


soul is sad! 160 
I suffer! O my God! come, make 
me glad. 


When he is near, no thoughts of 
day intrude; 
Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste 
has blue eyes! 
Within them shines for me a 
heaven of love, 
A heaven all happiness, like that 
above, 
No more of grief! no more of 
lassitude ! 
Earth I forget, —and heaven, and 
all distresses, 
When seated by my side my hand 
he presses; 
But when alone, remember 


all! 
Where is Baptiste ? he hears not 
when I call! 170 
A branch of ivy, dying on the 
ground, 
I need some bough to twine 
around! 
In pity come! be to my suffering 
kind! 


True love, they say, in grief doth 
more abound ! 
What then—when one is 


blind ? 
‘Who knows? perhaps I am 
forsaken ! 
Ah! woe is me! then bear me to 
my grave! 


O God! what thoughts within 
me waken! 


rave! 

He will return! I need not 
fear! 180 

He swore it by our Saviour 
dear ; 

He could not come at his own 
will; 


Is weary, or perhaps is ill! 
Perhaps his heart, in this dis- 
guise, 
Prepares for me some sweet 
surprise! 
But some one comes! Though 
blind, my heart can see! 
And that deceives me not! ’tis he! 
tis he!’ 
And the door ajar it set, 
And poor, confiding Margaret 
Rises, with outstretched arms, but 
sightless eyes; 190 
’T is only Paul, her brother, who 
thus cries :— 
‘ Angela the bride has passed { 
I saw the wedding guests go 
by; 
Tell me, my sister, why were 
we not asked? 
For all are there but you and 
TD 
‘Angela married! and not 
sent 
To tell her secret unto me! 
Oh, speak! who may the 
bridegroom be?’ 
‘My sister, tis Baptiste, thy 
friend!’ 


A ery the blind girl gave, but no- 

thing said ; 200 

A milky whiteness spreads upon 
her cheeks; 

An icy hand, as heavy as lead, 


Descending, as her brother 
speaks, 
Upon her heart, that has 


ceased to beat, 
Suspends awhile its life and 
heat. 


822 


TRANSLATIONS 





She stands beside the boy, now 
sore distressed, 
A wax, Madonna as a peasant 
dressed. 
At length, the bridal song 
again 
Brings her back to her sorrow 
and pain. 


‘Hark! the joyous airs are 


ringing! 210 

Sister, dost thou hear them 
singing ? 

How merrily they laugh and 
jest! 

Would we were bidden with 
the rest! 


I would don my hose of home- 
spun gray, 
And my doublet of linen striped 
and gay; 
Perhaps they will come; for 
they do not wed 
Till to-morrow at seven o’clock, 
it is said!) 
‘I know it!’ answered Mar- 
garet; 
Whom the vision, with aspect 
black as jet, 
Mastered again; and its hand 
of ice 220 
Held her heart crushed, as inavice! 
‘Paul, be not sad! ‘Tis aholi- 


day ; 

To-morrow put on thy dou- 
blet gay! 

But leave me now for awhile 
alone.’ 


Away, with a hop and a jump, 
went Paul, 

And, as he whistled along the 
hall, 

Entered Jane, the crippled 
crone. 


‘Holy Virgin! what dreadful 
heat! : 

I am faint, and weary, and out 
of breath! 

But thou art cold, —art chill 
as death ; 230 


My little friend! what ails 

thee, sweet ?? ; 

‘Nothing! I heard them singing 
home the bride; 

And, as I listened to the song, 

I thought my turn would come 


erelong, 

Thou knowest it is at Whit- 
suntide. 

Thy cards forsooth can never 
lie, 


To me such joy they prophesy, 
Thy skill shall be vaunted far 
and wide 
When they behold him at my 
side. 
And poor Baptiste, what say: 
est thou? 240 
It must seem long to him;— me- 
thinks I see him now !? 
Jane, shuddering, her 
doth press : 
‘Thy love I cannot all ap- 
prove; 
We must not trust too much to 
happiness ; — 
Go, pray to God, that thou mayest 
love him less!? 
‘The more I pray, the more I 
love! : 
It is no sin, for God is on my 
side!’ 
It was enough; and Jane no more 
replied. 


hand 


Now toall hope her heart is barred 
and cold; 
But to deceive the beldame 


old 250 

She takes a sweet, contented 
alr ; 

Speak of foul weather or of 
fair, 

At every word the maiden 
smiles! 

Thus the beguiler she be. 
guiles ; 

So that, departing at the evening’s 

close, 


She says, ‘She may be saved! 
she nothing knows!’ 


THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL CUILLE 823 





Poor Jane, the cunning sor- 
ceress ! 
Now that thou wouldst, thou art 
no prophetess ! 
This morning, in the fulness of thy 
heart, 
Thou wast so, far beyond thine 


art! 260 


III 


Now rings the bell, nine times re- 
verberating, 
And the white daybreak, stealing 
up the sky, 
Sees in two cottages two maidens 
waiting, 
How differently ! 


Queen of a day, by flatterers ca- 
ressed, 
The one puts on her cross and 
crown, 
Decks with a huge bouquet 
her breast, 
And flaunting, fluttering up 
and down, 
Looks at herself, and cannot 
rest. 
The other, blind, within her 
little room, 270 
Has neither crown nor flow- 
er’s perfume ; 
But in their stead for something 
gropes apart, 
That in a drawer’s recess doth 
lie, 
And, ’neath her bodice of bright 
searlet dye, 
Convulsive clasps it to her 
heart. 


The one, fantastic, light as air, 
*Mid kisses ringing, 
And joyous singing, 

Forgets to say her morning 
prayer ! 


The other, with cold drops upon 
her brow, 280 


Joins her two hands, and kneels 
upon the floor, 
And whispers, as her brother opes 
the door, ' 
‘O God! forgive me now!? 


And then the orphan, young 
and blind, 
Conducted 
hand, 
Towards the church, through 
paths unscanned, 
With tranquil air, her way 
doth wind. 
Odors of laurel, making her faint 
and pale, 
Round her at times exhale, 289 
And in the sky as yet no sunny ray, 
But brumal vapors gray. 


by her brother’s 


Near that castle, fair to see, 
Crowded with sculptures old, in 
every part, 
Marvels of nature and of art, 
And proud of its name of high 
degree, 
A little chapel, almost bare 
At the base of the rock, is 
builded there; 
All glorious that it lifts aloof, 
Above each jealous cottage 
roof, 
Its sacred summit, swept by au- 
tumn gales, 300 
Andits blackened steeple high 
in air, 
Round which the osprey screams 
and sails. 


* Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by!’ 

Thus Margaret said. ‘ Where are 
we? we ascend!’ 

‘Yes; seest thou not our journey’s 
end ? 

Hearest not the osprey from the 
belfry cry ? 

The hideous bird, that brings ill 
luck, we know! 

Dost thou remember when our fa- 
ther said, 


TRANSLATIONS 





824 

The night we watched beside his 
bed, 

“O daughter, I am weak and 
low; 310 

Take care of Paul; I feel that I 
am dying!” 

And thou, and he, and JI, all fell to 
erying ? 

Then on the roof the osprey 


screamed aloud ; 

And hére they brought our father 
in his shroud. 

There is his grave; there stands 
the cross we set; 

Why dost thou clasp me so, dear 
Margaret ? 

Come in! the bride will be here 

soon: 

Thou tremblest! O my God! thou 
art going to swoon!’ 


She could no more, — the blind 
girl, weak and weary! 
A voice seemed crying from that 
grave so dreary, 320 
‘What wouldst thou do, my daugh- 
ter ?’— and she started, 
And quick recoiled, aghast, 
faint-hearted; 
But Paul, impatient, urges ever- 
more 
Her steps towards the open 
door ; 
And when, beneath her feet, the 
unhappy maid 
Crushes the laurel near the house 
immortal, 
And with her head, as Paul talks 
on again, 
Touches the crown of filigrane 
Suspended from the low-arched 
portal, 330 
No more restrained, no more 
afraid, 
She walks, as for a feast ar- 
rayed, 
And in the ancient chapel’s som- 
bre night 
They both are lost to sight. 


At length the bell, 
With booming sound, 
Sends forth, resounding round, 
Its hymeneal peal o’er rock and 
down the dell. 
It is broad day, with sunshine 
and with rain ; 
And yet the guests delay not 
long, 
For soon arrives the ee 
train, 
And with it brings the village 
throng. 


In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal 
gay, 

For lo! Baptiste on this trium- 
phant day, 

Mute as an idiot, sad as yester- 
morning, 

Thinks only of the beldame’s 
words of warning. 


And Angela thinks of her cross, I 
wis; 

To be a bride is all! the pretty 
lisper 

Feels her heart swell to hear all 
round her whisper, 

‘How beautiful! how beautiful 
she is!’ 


But she must calm that giddy 
head, 350 
For already the Mass is said; 
At the holy table stands the 
priest ; 
The wedding ring is blessed: 
Baptiste receives it; 
Ere on the finger of the bride h’ 
leaves it, 
He must pronounce one word 
at least! 
‘Tis spoken; and sudden at the 
groomsman’s side 
‘*T is he!’ a well-known voice has 
cried. 
And while the wedding guests all 
hold their breath, 


A CHRISTMAS CAROL 


825 





Opes the confessional, and the 
blind girl, see! 
‘Baptiste,’ she said, ‘since thou 
hast wished my death, 360 
As holy water be my blood for 
thee!’ 
And calmly in the air a knife sus- 
pended! 
Doubtless her guardian angel near 
attended, 
For anguish did its work so 
well, 
That, ere the fatal stroke de- 
scended, 
Lifeless she fell! 


At eve, instead of bridal verse, 

The De Profundis filled the 
air; 

Decked with flowers a simple 
hearse 

To the churehyard forth they 
bear ; 370 

Village girls in robes of snow 

Follow, weeping as they go; 

Nowhere was a smile that day, 

No, ah no! for each one seemed to 

say:— 


The road should mourn and be 
veiled in gloom, 

So fair a corpse shall leave its 
home! 

Should mourn and should weep, 
ah, well-away ! 

So fair a corpse shall pass to- 
day ! 


A CHRISTMAS CAROL 


FROM THE NOEI BOURGUIGNON 
DE GUI BAROZAI 


I HEAR along our street 
Pass the minstrel throngs; 
Hark! they play so sweet, 
On their hautboys, Christmas 
songs! 
Let us by the fire 


Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire! 


In December ring 
Every day the chimes; 
Loud the gleemen sing 
In the streets their merry rhymes. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 


Shepherds at the grange, 
Where the Babe was born, 
Sang, with many a change, 
Christmas carols until morn. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher ; 
Sing them till the night expire ! 


These good people sang 
Songs devout and sweet; 
While the rafters rang, 
There they stood with freezing 
feet. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 


Nuns in frigid cells 
At this holy tide, 
For want of something else, 
Christmas songs at times have 
tried. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher ; 
Sing them till the night expire! 


Washerwomen old, 
To the sound they beat, 
Sing by rivers cold, 
With uncovered heads and feet. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 


Who by the fireside stands 
Stamps his feet and sings ; 
But he who blows his hands 
Not so gay a carol brings. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire! 


&26 





CONSOLATION 


TO M. DUPERRIER, GENTLEMAN 
OF AIX IN PROVENCE, ON THE 
DEATH OF HIS DAUGHTER 


By Francois DE MALHERBE 


WILL then, Duperrier, thy sorrow 
be eternal? 
And shall the sad discourse 
Whispered within thy heart, by 
tenderness paternal, 
Only augment its force ? 


Thy daughter’s mournful fate, into 
the.tomb descending 
By death’s frequented ways, 
Has it become to thee a labyrinth 
never ending, 
Where thy lost reason strays ? 


I know the charms that made her 
youth a benediction: 
Nor should I be content, 
As a censorious friend, to solace 
thine affliction 
By her disparagement. 


But she was of the world, which 
fairest things exposes 
To fates the most forlorn; 
A rose, she too hath lived as long 
as live the roses, 
The space of one brief morn. 


Death has his rigorous laws, un- 
paralleled, unfeeling; 
All prayers to him are vain; 
Cruel, he stops his ears, and, deaf 
to our appealing, 
He leaves us to complain. 


The poor man in his hut, with only 
thatch for cover, 
Unto these laws must bend; 
The sentinel that guards the bar- 
riers of the Louvre 
Cannot our kings defend. 


TRANSLATIONS 





Tomurmur against death, in petu 
lant defiance, 
Is never for the best; 
To will what God doth will, that 
is the only science 
That gives us any rest. 


TO CARDINAL RICHELIEU 
BY FRANCOIS DE MALHERBE 


THov mighty Prince of Chureh 
and State, 

Richelieu! until the hour of death, 

Whatever road man chooses, Fate 

Still holds him subject to her 
breath. 

Spun of all silks, our days and 
nights 

Have sorrows woven with de- 
lights ; 

And of this intermingled shade 

Our various destiny appears, 

Even as one sees the course of 
years 

Of summers and of winters made. 


Sometimes the soft, deceitful hours 
Let us enjoy the halcyon wave; 
Sometimes impending peril lowers 
Beyond the seaman’s skill to save. 
The Wisdom, infinitely wise, 
That gives to human destinies 
Their foreordained necessity, 
Has made no law more fixed be- 
low, 
Than the alternate ebb and flow 
Of Fortune and Adversity. 


THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD 


(L’ANGE ET L’ENFANT; Exkaiz A UNE 
MERE) 


BY JEAN REBOUL, THE BAKER 
OF NISMES 


AN angel with a radiant face, 
Above a cradle bent to look, 


ON THE TERRACE OF THE AIGALADES 


827 





Seemed his own image there to 
trace, 
As in the waters of a brook. 


*Dear child! who me resemblest 
$0,’ 
It whispered, 
with me! 
Happy together let us go, 
The earth unworthy is of thee! 


‘come, oh come 


* Here none to perfect bliss attain; 
The soul in pleasure suffering 
lies ; 
Joy hath an undertone of pain, 
And even the happiest hours 
their sighs. 


* Fear doth at every portal knock; 
Never a day serene and pure 
From the o’ershadowing tempest’s 
shock 
Hath made the morrow’s dawn 
secure. 


*What, then, shall sorrows and 
shall fears 
Come to disturb so pure a brow? 
And with the bitterness of tears 
These eyes of azure troubled 
grow? 


*Ah no! into the fields of space, 
Away shalt thou escape with 
me; 
And Providence ‘will grant thee 
grace 
Of all the days that were to be. 


°Let no one in thy dwelling cower, 
In sombre vestments draped and 


veiled ; 
But let them welcome abs last 
hour, 
As thy first moments once they 
hailed. 


‘Without a cloud be there each 
brow; 

There let the grave no shadow 
cast; 


When one is pure as thou art 
now, 
The fairest day is still the last.’ 


And waving wide his wings of 
white, 
The angel, at these words, had 
sped 
Towards the eternal realms of 
light !— | 
Poor mother! see, thy son is 
dead! 


ON THE TERRACE OF THE 
AIGALADES 


BY JOSEPH MARY 


FRomM this high portal, where up. 
springs 

The rose to touch our hands in 
play, 

We at a glance behold three 

’ things, — 

The Sea, the Town, and the High. 

way. 


And the Sea says: My shipwrecks 
fear; 

I drown my best friends in the 
deep; 

And those who braved my tem- 
pests, here 

Among my sea-weeds lie asleep! 


The Town says: I am filled and 


fraught 

With tumult and with smoke and 
care; 

My days with toil are over. 
wrought, 


And in my nights I gasp for air. 


The Highway says: 
tracks guide 

To the pale climates of the North; 

Where my last milestone stands 
abide » 

The people to their death gone 
forth. 


My wheel- 


B28 


TRANSLATIONS 





Here in the shade this life of ours, 
Full of delicious air, glides by 
Amid a multitude of flowers 

As countless as the stars on high; 


These red-tiled roofs, this fruitful 
soil, 

Bathed with an azure all divine, 

Where springs the tree that gives 
us oil, 

The grape that giveth us the wine; 


Beneath these mountains stripped 


of trees, 

Whose tops with flowers are cov- 
ered o’er, 

Where springtime of the Hesper- 
ides 


Begins, but endeth nevermore ; 


Under these 
walls, 

That unto gentle sleep persuade; 

This rainbow of the waterfalls, 

Of mingled mist and sunshine 
made; 


leafy vaults and 


Upon these shores, where all in- 


vites, 
We live our languid life apart; 
This air is that of life’s delights, 
The festival of sense and heart; 


This limpid space of time prolong, 

Forget to-morrow in to-day, 

And leave unto the passing throng 

The Sea, the Town, and the High- 
way. 


TO MY BROOKLET 
(A mon RursszAv) 
BY JEAN FRANGOIS DUCIS 
THOU brooklet, all unknown to 
song, 
Hid in the covert of the wood! 


Ah, yes, like thee I fear the throng, 
Like thee I love the solitude. 


O brooklet, let my sorrows past 
Lie all forgotten in their graves, 
Till in my thoughts remain at last 
Only thy peace, thy flowers, thy 
waves. 


The lily by thy margin waits ; — 
The nightingale, the marguerite; 
In shadow here he meditates 
His nest, his love, his music 
sweet. 


Near thee the self-collected soul 
Knows haught of error or of 


crime ; 
Thy waters, murmuring as they 
roll, 
Transform his musings into 
rhyme. 


Ah, when, on bright autumnal 
eves, 

Pursuing still thy course, shall I 

List the soft shudder of the leaves, 

And hear the lapwing’s plaintive 
cry? 


BARREGES 
BY LEFRANC DE POMPIGNAN 


I LEAVE you, ye cold mountain 
chains, 
Dwelling of warriors stark and 
frore! 
You, may these eyes behold no 
more, 
Save on the horizon of our plains. 


Vanish, ye frightful, gloomy views! 
Ye rocks that mount up to the 
clouds ! 
Of skies, enwrapped in misty 
shrouds, 
Impracticable avenues! 


Ye torrents, that with might and 
main 
Break pathways through the 
rocky walls, 


AT LA CHAUDEAU 





With your terrific waterfalls 
‘Fatigue no more my weary brain! 


Arise, ye landscapes full of charms, 
Arise, ye pictures of delight! 
Ye brooks, that water in your 

flight 

The flowers and harvests of our 

farms! 


You I perceive, ye meadows green, , 


Where the Garonne the lowland 
fills, 

Not far from that long chain of 
hills, 

With intermingled vales between. 


Yon wreath of smoke, that mounts 
so high, 
Methinks from my own hearth 
must come ; 
With speed, to that beloved 
home, 
Fly, ye too lazy coursers, fly! 


And bear me thither, where the 
soul 
In quiet may itself possess, 
Where all things soothe the 
mind’s distress, 
Where all things teach me and 
console. 


WILL EVER THE DEAR DAYS 
COME BACK AGAIN? 


WILL ever the dear days come 
back again, 
Those days of June, when lilacs 
were in bloom, 
And bluebirds sang their sonnets 
in the gloom 
Of leaves that roofed them in 
from sun or rain? 
I know not; but a presence will 
remain 
Forever and forever in this room, 
Formless, diffused in air; like a 
perfume, — 
A phantom of the heart, and not 
the brain. 


829 








Delicious days! when every spoken 
word 
Was like a footfall nearer and 
more near, 
And a mysterious knocking at 
the gate 
Of the heart’s secret places, and we 
heard 
In the sweet tumult of delight 
and fear : 
A voice that whispered, ‘ Open, I 
cannot wait!’ 


AT LA CHAUDEAU 
BY XAVIEK MARMIER 


AT La Chaudeau, — ’tis long since 


then: 

I was young,—my years twice 
ten; 

All things smiled on the happy 
boy, 


Dreams of love and songs of joy, 
Azure of heaven and wave below, 
At La Chaudeau. 


To La Chaudeau I come back 
old: 
My head is gray, my blood is cold; 
Seeking along the meadow ooze, 
Seeking beside the river Seymouse, 
The days of my spring-time of long 
ago 
At La Chaudeau. 


At La Chaudeau nor heart nor 
brain 

Ever grows old with grief and 
pain ; 

A sweet remembrance keeps off 
age; 

A tender friendship doth still as- 
suage 

The burden of sorrow that one 
may know 

At La Chaudeau. 


At La Chaudeau, had fate decreed 


To limit the wandering life I lead. 


830 





Peradventure I still, forsooth, 
Should have preserved my fresh 
green youth 
Under the shadows the hill-tops 
throw 
At La Chaudeau. 


At La Chaudeau, live on, my 
friends, 

Happy to be where God intends; 

And sometimes, by the evening 
fire, 

Think of him whose sole desire 

Is again to sit in the old cha- 
teau 

At La Chaudeau. 


A QUIET LIFE 


LET him who will, by force or 
fraud innate, 
Of courtly grandeurs gain the 
slippery height; 
JI, leaving not the home of my 
delight, 
Far from the world and noise 
will meditate. 
Then, without pomps or perils of 
the great, 
I shall behold the day succeed 
the night; 
Behold the alternate seasons 
take their flight, 
And in serene repose old age 
await. 
And so, whenever Death shall 
come to cluse 
The happy tioments that my 
days compose, 
I, full of years, shall die, obscure, 
alone! 
flow wretched is the man, with 
honors crowned, 
Who, having not the one thing 
needful found, 
Dies, known to all, but to him- 
self unknown. 


TRANSLATIONS 





THE WINE OF JURANCON 
BY CHARLES CORAN 


LITTLE sweet wine of Juran¢gon, 
You are dear tomy memory still! 
With mine host and his merry 
song, 
Under the rose-tree I drank my 
fill. 


Twenty years after, passing that 
way, 
Under the trellis I found again 
Mine host, still sitting there au 
Srais, 
And singing still the same re- 
frain. 


The Jurancon, so fresh and bold, 
Treats me as one it used to 
know ; 
Souvenirs of the days of old 
Already from the bottle flow. 


With glass in hand our glances 
met; 
We pledge, we drink. Howsour 
itis! 
Never Argenteuil piquette 
Was to my palate sour as this! 


And yet the vintage was good, in 
sooth ; 

The self-same juice, the self-same 
cask! 

It was you, O gayety of my youth, 

That failed in the autumnai 
flask! 


FRIAR LUBIN 
(LE FrERE LupBin) 
BY CLEMENT MAROT 


To gallop off to town post-haste, 
So oft, the times I cannot tell; 
To do vile deed, nor feel dis 

graced, — 


THE; CELESTIAL PILOT 


Po. 


Friar Lubin will do it well. 
But a sober life to lead, 
To honor virtue, and pursue it, 
That ’s a pious, Christian deed, — 
Friar Lubin cannot do it. 


To mingle, with a knowing smile, 
The goods of others with his 
own, 
And leave you without cross or 
pile, 
Friar Lubin stands alone. 
To say ’tis yours is all in vain, 
If once he lays his finger to it; 
For as to giving back again, 
Friar Lubin cannot do it. 


With flattering words and gentle 
tone, 
To woo and win some guileless 
maid, 
Cunning pander need you none, — 
Friar Lubin knows the trade. 
Loud preacheth he sobriety, 
But as for water, doth eschew it; 
Your dog may drink it,— but not 
he; 
Friar Lubin cannot do it. 


ENVOY 


When an evil deed ’s to do 

Friar Lubin is stout and true ; 

Glimmers a ray of goodness 
through it, 

Friar Lubin cannot do it. 


RONDEL 
BY JEAN FROISSART 


LOVE, love, what wilt thou with 
this heart of mine? 
Naught see I fixed or sure in 
thee! 
I do not. know thee,—nor what 
deeds are thine: 
Love, love, what wilt thou with 
this heart of mine ? 
Naught see I fixed or sure in 
thee! 


831 





Shall I be mute, or vows with 
prayers combine? 
Ye who are blessed in loving, tell 
it me: 
Love, love, what wilt thou with 
this heart of mine? 
Naught see I permanent or sure 
in thee! 


MY SECRET 
BY FELIX ARVERS 


My soul its secret has, my life too 
has its mystery, 

A love eternal in a moment’s space 
conceived ; 

Hopeless the evil is, I have not 
told its history, 

And she who was the cause nor 
knew it nor believed. 

Alas! I shall have passed close by 
her unperceived, 

Forever at her side, and yet for- 
ever lonely, 

I shall unto the end have made 
life’s journey, only 

Daring to ask for naught, and hay- 
ing naught received. 

For her, though God has made her 
gentle and endearing, 

She will go on her way distraught 
and without hearing 

These murmurings of love that 
round her steps ascend, 

Piously faithful still unto her aus- 
tere duty, 

Will say, when she shall read these 
lines full of her beauty, 
‘Who can this woman be?’ and 

will not comprehend. 


FROM THE ITALIAN 


THE CELESTIAL PILOT 
PURGATORIO IT. 13-51. 


AND now, behold! as at the ap 
proach of morning, 


832 


TRANSLATIONS 





Through the gross vapors, Mars 
grows fiery red 
Down in the west upon the ocean 
floor, 
Appeared to me, — may Iagain be- 
hold it! 
A light along the sea, so swiftly 
coming, 
Its motion by no flight of wing is 
equalled. 
And when therefrom I had with- 
drawn a little 
Mine eyes, that I might question 
my conductor, 
Again I saw it brighter grown 
and larger. 
Thereafter, on all sides of it, ap- 
peared 
I knew not what of white, and 
underneath, 
Little by little, there came forth 
another. 
My master yet had uttered nota 
word, 
While the first whiteness into 
wings unfolded ; 
But, when he clearly recognized 
the pilot, 
He cried aloud: ‘ Quick, quick, and 
- bow the knee! 
Behold the Angel of God! fold 
up thy hands ! 
Henceforward shalt thou see 
such officers! 
See, how he scorns all human argu- 
ments, 
So that no oar he wants, nor 
other sail 
Than his own wings, between so 
distant shores! 
See, how he holds them, pointed 
straight to heaven, 
Fanning the air with the eternal 
pinions, 
That do not moult themselves 
like mortal hair !? 
And then, as nearer and more near 
us came 
The Bird of Heaven, more glori- 
ous he appeared, 


So that the eye could not sustain 
his presence, 
But down I cast it; and he came 
to shore 
With a small vessel, gliding 
swift and light, 
So that the water swallowed 
naught thereof. 
Upon the stern stood the Celestial 
Pilot! 
Beatitude seemed written in his 
face! 
And more than a hundred spirits 
sat within. : 
‘In exitu Israel de Atgypto !? 
Thus sang they all together in 
one voice, 
With whatso in that Psalm is 
after written. 
Then made he sign of holy rood 
upon them, 
Whereat all cast themselves 
upon the shore, 
And he departed swiftly as he 
came. 


THE TERRESTRIAL PARA- 
DISE 


PURGATORIO XXVIII. 
1-33. 


LONGING already to search in and 
round 
The heavenly forest, dense and 
living-green, 
Which tempered to the eyes the 
new-born day, 
-Withouten more delay I left the 
bank, 
Crossing the level 
slowly, slowly, 
Over the soil, that everywhere 
breathed fragrance, 
A gently-breathing air, that no 
mutation 
Had in itself, smote me upon the 
forehead 


country 


BEATRICE 





No heavier blow than of a plea- 
sant breeze, 
Whereat the tremulous branches 
readily 
Did all of them bow downward 
tuwards that side 
Where its first shadow casts the 
Holy Mountain; 
Yet not from their upright direc- 
tion bent 
So that the little birds upon their 
tops 
Should cease the practice of their 
tuneful art: 
But, with full-throated joy, the 
hours of prime 
Singing received they in the 
midst of foliage 
That made monotonous burden 
to their rhymes, 
Even as from branch to branch it 
gathering sweils, 
Through the pine forests on the 
shore of Chiassi, 
When A€olus unlooses the Si- 
rocco. 
Already my slow steps had led me 
on 
Into the ancient wood so far, 
that i 
Could see no more the place 
where I had entered. 
And lo! my further course cut off 
a river, 
Which, tow’rds the left hand, 
with its little waves, 
Bent down the grass, that on its 
margin sprang. 
All waters that on earth most 
limpid are, 
Would seem to have within 
themselves some mixture, 
Compared with that, which no- 
thing doth conceal, 
Although it moves on with a 
brown, brown current, 
Under the shade perpetual, that 
never 
Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the 
moon. 


833 





BEATRICE 


PURGATORIO XXX. 13-33, 85-99, 
XXXI. 13-21. 


EVEN as the Blessed, at the final 
summons, 
Shall rise up quickened, each 
one from his grave, 
Wearing again the garments of 
the flesh, 
So, upon that celestial chariot, 
A hundred rose ad vocem tanti 
senis, 
Ministers and messengers of life 
eternal. 
They all were saying, ‘ Benedictus 
qui venis,’ 
And scattering flowers above 
and round about, 
* Manibus o date lilia plenis.’ 
Oft have I seen, at the approach of 
day, 
The orient sky all stained with 
roseate hues, 
And the other heaven with light 
serene adorned, 
And the sun’s face uprising, over- 
shadowed, 
So that, by temperate influence 
of vapors, 
The eye sustained his aspect for 
long while; 
Thus in the bosom of a cloud of 
flowers, 
Which from those hands angelic 
were thrown up, 
And down descended inside and 
without, 
With crown of olive o’er a snow- 
white veil, 
Appeared a lady, under a green 
mantle, 
Vested in colors of the living 
flame. 
Even as the snow, among the liv- 
ing rafters 
Upon the back of Italy, congeals, 
Blown on and beaten by Scla- 
vohian winds, 


834 


TRANSLATIONS 





And then, dissolving, filters 
through itself, 
Whene’er the land, that loses 
shadow, breathes, 
Like as a taper melts before a 
fire, } 
Even such I was, without a sigh o 
tear, 
Before the song of those who 
chime forever 
After the chiming of the eternal 
spheres ; 
But, when I heard in those sweet 
melodies 
Compassion for me, more than 
had they said, 
‘Oh wherefore, lady, dost thou 
thus consume him?’ 
The ice, that was about my heart 


congealed, 
To air and water changed, and, 
in my anguish, . 


Through lips and eyes. came 
gushing from my breast. 
Confusion and dismay, together 
mingled, 
Forced such a feeble ‘ Yes!’ out 
of my mouth, 
To understand it one had need 
of sight. 
Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 
tis discharged, 
Too tensely drawn the bow- 
string and the bow, 
And with less force the arrow 
hits the mark ; 
So I gave way beneath this heavy 
burden, 
Gushing forth into bitter tears 
and sighs, 
And the voice, fainting, flagged 
upon its passage. 


TO ITALY 
BY VINCENZO DA FILICAJA 


ITALY? Italy! thou who ’rt 


doomed to wear 


The fatal gift of beauty, and 


possess 

The dower funest of infinite 
wretchedness 

Written upon thy forehead by 
despair ; 


Ah! would that thou wert stronger, 
or less fair, 
That they might fear thee more, 
or love thee less, 
Who in the splendor of thy love- 
liness 
Seem wasting, yet to mortal com- 
bat dare! 
Then from the Alps I should not 
see descending 
Such torrents of armed men, nor 
Gallic horde 
Drinking the wave of Po, dis- 
tained with gore, 
Nor should I see thee girded with 
a sword 
Not thine, and with the stran- 
ger’s arm contending, 
Victor or vanquished, slave for- 
evermore. 


SEVEN SONNETS AND A 
CANZONE 


The following translations are from 
the poems of Michael Angelo as revised 
by his nephew, Michael Angelo. the 
Younger, and were made before the 
publication of the original text by 
Guasti. 

I 


THE ARTIST 


NOTHING the greatest artist can 
conceive 
That every marble block doth 
not confine 
Within itself; and only its de: 
sign 
The hand that follows intellect 
can achieve. 
The ill I flee, the good that I be 
lieve, 
In thee, fair lady, lofty and dé 
vine, 


SEVEN SONNETS AND A CANZONE 


835 





Thus hidden lie; and so that 
death be mine, 
Art, of desired success, doth me 
bereave. 
Love is not guilty, then, nor thy 
fair face, 
Nor fortune, cruelty, nor great 
disdain, 
Of my disgrace, nor chance nor 
destiny, 


If in thy heart both death and | 


love find place 

At the same time, and if my 
humble brain, 

Burning, can nothing draw but 
death from thee. 


II 
FIRE 


Not without fire can any work- 
man mould 
The iron to his preconceived de- 
sign, 
Nor can the artist without fire 
refine 
And purify from all its dross the 
gold; 
Nor can revive the phoenix, we are 
told, 
Except by fire. Hence, if such 
death be mine, 
I hope to rise again with the 
divine, 
Whom death augments, and time 
eannot make old, 
O sweet, sweet death! 
nate fire that burns 
Within me still to renovate my 
days, 
Though I am almost numbered 
with the dead! 
If by its nature unto heaven re- 
turns 
This element, me, kindled in its 
blaze, 
Will it bear upward when my 
life is fled. 


O. fortu- 


Ill 
YOUTH AND AGE 


OH give me back the days when 
loose and free 
To my blind passion were the 
curb and rein, 
Oh give me back the angelic 
face again, 
With which all virtue buried 
seems to be! 
Oh give my panting footsteps back 
to me, 
That are in age so slow and 
fraught with pain, 
And fire and moisture in the 
heart and brain, 
If thou wouldst have me burn 
' and weep for thee! 
If it be true thou livest alone, 
Amor, . 
On the sweet-bitter tears of hu- 
man hearts, 
In an old man thou canst not 
wake desire; 
Souls that have almost reached 
the other shore 
Of a diviner love should feel the 
darts, 
And be as tinder to a holier 
fire. 


IV 
OLD AGE 


THE course of my long life hath 
reached at last, 
In fragile bark o’er a tempestu- 
ous Sea, 
The common harbor, 
must rendered be 
Account of all the actions of the 
past. 
The impassioned, phantasy, that, 
vague and vast, 
Made art an idol and a king toa 
me, 


where 


836 


TRANSLATIONS 





Was an illusion, and but van- 
ity 
Were the desires that lured me 
and harassed. 
The dreams of love, that were so 
sweet of yore, 
What are they now, when two 
deaths may be mine, — 
One sure, and one forecasting its 
alarms ? 
Painting and sculpture satisfy no 
more 
The soul now turning to the 
Love Divine, 
That oped, to embrace us, on 
the cross its arms. 


Vv 
TO VITTORIA COLONNA 


LADY, how can it chance — yet 
this we see 
In long experience — that will 
longer last 
A living image carved from 
quarries vast 
Than its own maker, who dies 
presently ? 
Cause yieldeth to effect if this so 
be, 
And even Nature is by Art sur- 
passed ; 
This know I, who to Art have 
given the past, 
But see that Time is breaking 
faith with me. ; 
Perhaps on both of us long life 
can I 
Either in color or in stone be- 
stow, 
By now portraying each in look 
and mien; 
So that a thousand years after we 
die, 
How fair thou wast, and I how 
full of woe, 
And wherefore I so loved thee, 
may be seen. 


VI 
TO VITTORIA COLONNA 


WHEN the prime mover of my 
many sighs 
Heaven took through death from 
out her earthly place, 
Nature, that never made so fair 
a face, 
Remained ashamed, and tears 
were in all eyes. 
O fate, unheeding my impassioned 
cries! 
O hopes fallacious! O thou spirit 
of grace, 
Where art thou now? Earth 
holds in its embrace 
Thy lovely limbs, thy 
thoughts the skies. 
Vainly did cruel death attempt to 
stay 
The rumor of thy virtuous re- 
nown, 
That Lethe’s waters could not 
wash away! 
A thousand leaves, since he hath 
stricken thee down, 
Speak of thee, nor to thee could 
Heaven convey, 
Except through death, a refuge 
and a crown. 


holy 


VII 
DANTE 


WHAT should be said of him can- 
not be said; 
By: too great splendor is his 
name attended; ; 
To blame is easier those who 
him offended, } 
Than reach the faintest glory 
round him shed. 
This man descended to the doomed 
and dead 
For our instruction; then to God 
ascended; 
Heaven opened wide to him its 
portals splendid, 


SONG 


837 





Who from his country’s, closed 
against him, fled. 
Ungrateful land! To its own preju- 
dice 
Nurse of his fortunes; and this 
showeth well 
That the most perfect most of 
grief shall see. 
Among a thousand proofs let one 
suffice, 
That as his exile hath no paral- 
lel, 
Ne’er walked the earth a greater 
man than he. 


VIII 
CANZONE 


AH me! ah me! when thinking of 
the years, 
The vanished years, alas, I do 
not find 
Among them all one day that 
was my own! 
Fallacious hopes, desires of the 
unknown, 
Lamenting, loving, burning, and 
in tears, 
(For human passions all have 
stirred my mind,) 
Have held me, now I feel and 
know, confined 
Both from the true and good still 
far away. 
IT perish day by day ; 
The sunshine fails, the shadows 
grow more dreary, 
And I am near to fall, infirm and 
weary. 


THE NATURE OF LOVE 
BY GUIDO GUINIZELLI 
To noble heart Love doth for shel- 
ter fly, 


As seeks the bird the forest’s leafy 
shade; 


Love was not felt till noble heart 
beat high, 
Nor before love the noble heart 
was made. 
Soon as the sun’s broad flame 
Was formed, so soon the clear 
light filled the air: 
Yet was not till he came: 
So love springs up in noble breasts, 
and there 
Has its appointed space, 
As heat in the bright flames finds 
its allotted place. 
Kindles in noble heart the fire of 
love, 
As hidden virtue in the precious 
stone: 
This virtue comes not from the 
stars above, 
Till round it the ennobling sun 
has shone ; 
But when his powerful blaze 
Has drawn forth what was vile, 
the stars impart 
Strange virtue in their rays; 
And thus when Nature doth create 
the heart 
Noble and pure and high, 
Like virtue from the star, love 
comes from woman’s eye. 


FROM THE PORTUGUESE 
SONG 
BY GIL VICENTE 


IF thou art sleeping, maiden, 
Awake, and open thy door. 
*T is the break of day, and we 
must away, 
Over meadow, and mount, and 
moor. 


Wait not to find thy slippers, 
But come with thy naked feet: 
We shall have to pass through the 
dewy grass, 
And waters wide and fleet. 


838 





FROM EASTERN SOURCES 
THE FUGITIVE 


A TARTAR SONG 


I 


‘He is gone to the desert land! 

IT can see the shining mane 

Of his horse on the distant plain, 
As he rides with his Kossak band! 


‘Come back, rebellious one! 

Let thy proud heart relent; 

Come back to my tall, white tent, 
Come back, my only son! 


‘Thy hand in freedom shall 

Cast thy hawks, when morning 
breaks, 

On the swans of the Seven Lakes, 

On the lakes of Karajal. 


*I will give thee leave to stray 
And pasture thy hunting steeds 
In the long grass and the reeds 
Of the meadows of Karaday. 


‘I will give thee my coat of mail, 
Of softest leather made, 

With choicest steel inlaid; 

Will not all this prevail?’ 


II 


‘This hand no longer shall 

Cast my hawks, when morning 
breaks, 

On the swans of the Seven Lakes, 

On the lakes of Karajal. 


*T will no longer stray 

And pasture my hunting steeds 
In the long grass and the reeds 
Of the meadows of Karaday. 


'Though thou give me thy coat of 
mail, 

Of softest leather made, 

With choicest steel inlaid, 

All this cannot prevail. 


TRANSLATIONS 





* What right hast thou, O Khan, 
To me, who am mine own, 

Who am slave to God alone, 
And not to any man? 


‘God will appoint the day 

When I again shall be 

By the blue, shallow sea, 

Where the steel-bright sturgeong 
play. 


‘God, who doth care for me, 
In the barren wilderness, 
On unknown hills, no less 
Will my companion be. 


‘When I wander lonely and lost 

In the wind; when I watch at 
night 

Like a hungry wolf, and am white 

And covered with hoar-frost; 


‘Yea, wheresoever I be, 

In the yellow desert sands, 

In mountains or unknown lands, 
Allah will care for me!’ 


Ill 


Then Sobra, the old, old man, — 
Three hundred and sixty years 
Had he lived in this land of tears, 
Bowed down and said, ‘O Khan! 


‘Tf you bid me, I will speak. 
There ’s no sap in dry grass, 

No marrow in dry bones! Alas, 
The mind of old men is weak! 


‘Tam old, I am very old: 

I have seen the primeval man, 

I have seen the great Genghis 
Khan, 

Arrayed in his robes of gold. 


‘What I say to you is the truth; 
And I say to you, O Khan, 
Pursue not the star-white man, 
Pursue not the beautiful youth. 


‘Him the Almighty made, 
And brought him forth .2f the 
light 


THE BOY AND THE BROOK 


839 





At the verge and end of the night, 
When men on the mountain 
prayed. 


‘He was born at the break of day, 
When abroad the angels walk; 
He hath listened to their talk, 
And he knoweth what they say. 


‘Gifted with Allah’s grace, 

Like the moon of Ramazan 

When it shines in the skies, O 
Khan, 

Is the light of his beautiful face. 


* When first on earth he trod, 

The first words that he said 

Were these, as he stood and 
prayed, 

“There is no God but God!” 


* And he shall be king of men, 
For Allah hath heard his prayer, 
And the Archangel in the air, 
Gabriel, hath said, Amen!’ 


THE SIEGE OF KAZAN 


BLACK are the moors before Ka- 
zan, 
And their stagnant waters smell 
of blood: 
I said in my heart, with horse and 
man, 
I will swim across this shallow 
flood. 


Under the feet of Argamack, 
Like new moons were the shoes 
he bare, 
Silken trappings hung on his back, 
In a talisman on his neck, a 
prayer. 


My warriors, thought I, are follow- 
ing me; 
But when I looked behind, alas! 
Not one of all the band could I see, 
All had sunk in the black mo- 
rass ! 


Where are our shallow fords? and 
where 
The power of Kazan with its 
fourfold gates? 
From the prison windows our 
maidens fair 
Talk of us still through the iron 
grates. 


We cannot hear them; for horse 
and man 
Lie buried deep in the dark 
abyss ! 
Ah! the black day hath come down 
on Kazan! 
Ah! was ever a grief like this ? 


THE BOY AND THE BROOK 


DOWN from yon distant mountain 
height 
The brooklet flows through the 
village street ; 
A boy comes forth to wash his 
hands, 
Washing, yes, washing, there he 
stands, 
In the water cool and sweet. 


Brook, from what mountain dost 
thou come? © 
O my brooklet cool and sweet! 
I come from yon mountain high 
and cold 
Where lieth the new snow on the 
old, 
And melts in the summer heat, 


Brook, to what river dost thou 
£0? 
O my brooklet cool and sweet ! 
I go to the river there below 
Where in bunches the violet: 
grow, 
And sun and shadow meet, 


Brook, to what garden dost thou 
go? 
O my brooklet cool and sweet! 


840 





I go to the garden in the vale 
Where all night long the nightin- 
gale 
Her love-song doth repeat. 


Brook, to what fountain dost thou 
go? 
O my brooklet cool and sweet! 
IE go to the fountain at whose 
brink 


The maid that loves thee comes to 


drink, 
And whenever she looks therein, 
I rise to meet her, and kiss her 
chin, 
And my joy is then complete. 


TO THE STORK 


WELCOME, O Stork! that dost 
wing 
Thy flight from the far-away ! 
Thou hast brought us the signs of 
Spring, 
Thou hast made our sad hearts 
gay. 


Descend, O Stork ! descend 
Upon our roof to rest; 


TRANSLATIONS 


———— oe 


In our ash-tree, O my friend, 
My darling, make thy nest. 


To thee, O Stork, I complain, 
O Stork, to thee I impart 

The thousand sorrows, the pain 
And aching of my heart. 


When thou away didst go, 
Away from this tree of ours, 

The withering winds did blow, 
And dried up all the flowers. 


Dark grew the brilliant sky, 
Cloudy and dark and drear; 
They were breaking the snow on 
high, 
And winter was drawing near. 


From Varaca’s rocky wall, 
From the rock of Varaca un: 
rolled, 
The snow came and covered all, 
And the green meadow was cold. 


O Stork, our garden with snow 
Was hidden away and lost, 
And the rose-trees that in it grow 
Were withered by snow and 
frost. 


FROM THE LATIN 


VIRGIL’S FIRST ECLOGUE 


MELIBQUS. 


TITYRUwS, thou in the shade of a spreading beech tree reclining 
Meditatest, with slender pipe, the Muse of the woodlands. 

We our country’s bounds and pleasant pastures relinquish, 

We our country fly; thou, Tityrus, stretched in the shadow, 
Teachest the woods to resound with the name of the fir Amaryllis. 


TITYRUS. 


O Melibceus, a god for us this leisure created, 

For he will be unto me a god forever; his altar 

Oftentimes shall imbue a tender lamb from our sheepfolds. 

He, my heifers to wander at large, and myself, as thou seest, 

On my rustic reed to play what I will, hath permitted. 10 


VIRGIL’S FIRS* ECLOGUE 841 





MELIBGUS. 
Truly I envy not, I marvel rather; on all sides 
In all the fields is such trouble. Behold, my goats I am driving, 
Heartsick, further away; this one scarce, Tityrus, lead I; 
For having here yeaned twins just now among the dense hazels, 
Hope of the flock, ah me! on the naked flint she hath left them. 
Often this evil to me, if my mind had not been insensate, 
Oak trees stricken by heaven predicted, as now I remember; 
Often the sinister crow from the hollow ilex predicted. 
Nevertheless, who this god may be, O Tityrus, tell me. 


TITY RUS. 
O Melibceus, the city that they call Rome, I imagined, 20 
Foolish I! to be like this of ours, where often we shepherds 
Wonted are to drive down of our ewes the delicate offspring. 
Thus whelps like unto dogs had I known, and kids to their mothers, 
Thus to compare great things with small had I been accustomed. 
But this among other cities its head as far hath exalted 
As the cypresses do among the lissome viburnums. 


MELIRGUS. 
And what so great occasion of seeing Rome hath possessed thee? 


TITYRUS. 


Liberty, which, though late, looked upon me in my inertness, 

After the time when my beard fell whiter from me in shaving, 

Yet she Jooked upon me, and came to me after a long while, 30 
Since Amaryllis possesses and Galatea hath left me. 

For I will even confess that while Galatea possessed me 

Neither care of my flock nor hope of liberty was there. 

Though from my wattled folds there went forth many a victim, 

And the unctuous cheese was pressed for the city ungrateful, 

Never did my right hand return home heavy with money. 


MELIBQUS. 


I have wondered why sad thou invokedst the gods, Amaryllis, 

And for whom thou didst suffer the apples to hang on the branches! 
Tityrus hence was absent! Thee, Tityrus, even the pine trees, 

Thee the very fountains, the very copses were calling. 40 


TITYRUS. 


What could Ido? No power had I to escape from my bondage, 
Nor had I power elsewhere to recognize gods so propitious. 

Here I beheld that youth, to whom each year, Meliboeus, 

During twice six days ascends the smoke of our altars. 

Here first gave he response to me soliciting favor : 

‘Feed as before your heifers, ye boys, and yoke up your bullocks.’ 


MELIBQUS. 


Fortunate old man! So then thy fields will be left thee, 
And large enough for thee, though raked stone and the marish 


842 TRANSLATIONS 





All thy pasture-lands with the dreggy rush may encompass. 

No unaccustomed food thy gravid ewes shall endanger, | 
Nor of the neighboring flock the dire contagion infect them. 
Fortunate old man! Here among familiar rivers, 

And these sacred founts, shalt thou take the shadowy coolness. 

On this side, a hedge along the neighboring cross-road, 

Where Hyblxwan bees ever feed on the flower of the willow, 

Often with gentle susurrus to fall asleep shall persuade thee. 
Yonder, beneath the high rock, the pruner shall sing to the breezes, 
Nor meanwhile shall thy heart’s delight, the hoarse wood-pigeons, 
Nor the turtle-dove cease to mourn from aerial elm trees. 


TITYRUS. 


Therefore the agiie stags shall sooner feed in the ether, 6a 
And the billows leave the fishes bare on the sea-shore, 

Sooner, the border-lands of both overpassed, shall the exiled 

Parthian drink of the Soane, or the German drink of the Tigris, 

Than the face of him shall glide away from my bosom! 


MELIBQUS. 


But we hence shall go, a part to the thirsty Africs, 

Part to Scythia come, and the rapid Cretan Oaxes, 

And to the Britons from all the universe utterly sundered. 

Ah, shall I ever, a long time hence, the bounds of my country 

And the roof of my lowly cottage covered with greensward 63 
Seeing, with wonder behold,—my kingdoms, a handful of wheat-ears ! 
Shall an impious soldier possess these lands newly cultured, 

And these fields of corn a barbarian? Lo, whither discord 

Us wretched people hath brought! for whom our fields we have planted! 
Graft, Meliboeus, thy pear trees now, put in order thy vineyards. 

Go, my goats, go hence, my flocks so happy aforetime. 

Never again henceforth outstretched in my verdurous cavern 

Shall I behold you afar from the bushy precipice hanging. 

Songs no more shall I sing; not with me, ye goats, as your shepherd, 
Shall ye browse on the bitter willow or blooming laburnum. 


TITYRUS. 


Nevertheless, this night together with me canst thou rest thee 8a 
Here on the verdant leaves; for us there are mellowing apples, 
Chestnuts soft to the touch, and clouted cream in abundance; 
And the high roofs now of the villages smoke in the distance, 
And from the lofty mountains are falling larger the shadows. 


OVID IN EXILE 
AT TOMIS, IN BESSARABIA, NEAR THE MOUTHS OF THE DANUBE 
TrisT1A, Boox III., Eneaey X. 


SHOULD any one there in Rome remember Ovid the exile, 
And, without me, my name still in the city survive; 


OVID IN EXILE 843 





Tell him that under stars which never set in the ocean 
I am existing still, here in a barbarous land. 


Fierce Sarmatians encompass me round, and the Bessi and Gete; 
Names how unworthy to be sung by a genius like mine! 


Yet when the air is warm, intervening Ister defends us: 
He, as he flows, repels inroads of war with his waves. 


But when the dismal winter reveals its hideous aspect, 
When all the earth becomes white with a marble-like frost; Id 


And when Boreas is loosed, and the snow hurled under Arcturus, 
Then these nations, in sooth, shudder and shiver with cold. 


Deep lies the snow, and neither the sun nor the rain can dissolve it ; 
Boreas hardens it still, makes it forever remain. 


Hence, ere the first has melted away, another succeeds it. 
And two years it is wont, in many places, to lie. 


And so great is the power of the Northwind awakened, it levels 
Lofty towers with the ground, roofs uplifted bears off. 


. Wrapped in skins, and with trousers sewed, they contend with the 
weather, 
And their faces alone of the whole body are seen. 20 


Often their tresses, when shaken, with pendent icicles tinkle, 
And their whitened beards shine with the gathering frost. 


Wines consolidate stand, preserving the form of the vessels; 
No more draughts of wine, — pieces presented they drink. 


Why should I tell you how all the rivers are frozen and solid, 
And from out of the lake frangible water is dug? 


Ister. — no narrower stream than the river that bears the papyrus, — 
Which through its many mouths mingles its waves with the deep; 


Ister, with hardening winds, congeals its cerulean waters, 
Under a roof of ice winding its way to the sea. 3c 


There where ships have sailed, men go on foot; and the billows, 
Solid made by the frost, hoof-beats of horses indent. 


Over unwonted bridges, with water gliding beneath them, 
The Sarmatian steers drag their barbarian carts. 


Scarcely shall I be believed; yet when naught is gained by a falsehood, 
Absolute credence then should to a witness be given. 


844 TRANSLATIONS 





I have beheld the vast Black Sea of ice all compacted, 
And a slippery crust pressing its motionless tides. 


*T is not enough to have seen, I have trodden this indurate ocean; 
Dry shod passed my foot over its uppermost wave. 4a 


If thou hadst had of old such a sea as this is, Leander! 
Then thy death had not been charged as a crime to the Strait. 


Nor can the curvéd dolphins uplift themselves from the water; 
All their struggles to rise merciless winter prevents; 


And though Boreas sound with roar of wings in commotion, 
In the blockaded gulf never a wave will there be; 


And the ships will stand hemmed in by the frost, as in marble, 
Nor will the oar have power through the stiff waters to cleave. 


Fast-bound in the ice have I seen the fishes adhering, 
Yet notwithstanding this some of them still were alive. 50 


Hence, if the savage strength of omnipotent Boreas freezes 
Whether the salt-sea wave, whether the refluent stream, — 


Straightway, — the Ister made level by arid blasts of the North-wind, — 
Comes the barbaric foe borne on his swift-footed steed ; 


Foe, that powerful made by his steed and his far-flying arrows, 
All the neighboring land void of inhabitants makes. 


Some take flight, and none being left to defend their possessions, 
Unprotected, their goods pillage and plunder become; 


Cattle and creaking carts, the little wealth of the country, 
And what riches beside indigent peasants possess. 60 


Some as captives are driven along, their hands bound behind them, 
Looking backward in vain toward their Lares and lands. 


Others, transfixed with barbéd arrows, in agony perish. 
For the swift arrow-heads all have in poison been dipped. 


What they cannot carry or lead away they demolish, 
And the hostile flames burn up the innocent cots. 


Even when there is peace, the fear of war is impending ; 
None, with the ploughshare pressed, furrows the soil any more. 


Either this region sees, or fears a foe that it sees not, 
And the sluggish land slumbers in utter neglect. , 73 


OVID IN EXILE 845 





No sweet grape lies hidden here in the shade of its vine-leaves, 
No fermenting must fills and o’erflows the deep vats. 


Apples the region denies; nor would Acontius have found here 
Aught upon which to write words for his mistress to read. 


Naked and barren plains without leaves or trees we behold here, — 
Places, alas! unto which no happy man would repair. 


Since then this mighty orb lies open so wide upon all sides, 
Has this region been found only my prison to be? 
TristrA, Boox III., Exrey XII. 


Now the zephyrs diminish the cold, and the year being ended, 
Winter Mzeotian seems longer than ever before; 86 


And the Ram that bore unsafely the burden of Helle, 
Now makes the hours of the day equal with those of the night. 


Now the boys and the laughing girls the violet gather, 
Which the fields bring forth, nobody sowing the seed. 


Now the meadows are blooming with flowers of various colors, 
And with untaught throats carol the garrulous birds. 


Now the swallow, to shun the crime of her merciless mother, 
Under the rafters builds cradles and dear little homes ; 


And the blade that lay hid, covered up inthe furrows of Ceres, 
Now from the tepid ground raises its delicate head. go 


Where there is ever a vine, the bud shoots forth from the tendrils, 
But fromthe Getic shore distant afar is the vine! 


Where there is ever a tree, on the tree the branches are swelling, 
But from the Getic land distant afar is the tree! 


Now it is holiday there in Rome, and to games in due order 
Give place the windy wars of the vociferous bar. 


Now they are riding the horses; with light arms now they are playing, 
Now with the ball, and now round rolls the swift-flying hoop: 


Now, when the young athlete with flowing oil is anointed, 
He in the Virgin’s Fount bathes, overwearied, his limbs. 10d 


Thrives the stage; and applause, with voices at variance, thunders, 
And the Theatres three for the three Forums resound. 


846 TRANSLATIONS 


———s 





Four times happy is he, and times without number is happy, 
Who the city of Rome, uninterdicted, enjoys. 


But all I see is the snow in the vernal sunshine dissolving, 
And the waters no more delved from the indurate lake. 


Nor is the cea now frozen, nor as before o’er the Ister 
Comes tne Sarmatian boor driving his stridulous eart. 


Hitherward, nevertheless, some keels already are steering, 
And on this Pontic shore alien vessels will be. 116 


Eagerly shall I run to the sailor, and, having saluted, 
Who he may be, I shall ask; wherefore and whencé he hath come. 


Strange indeed will it be, if he come not from regions adjacent, 
And incautious unless ploughing the neighboring sea. 


Rarely a mariner over the deep from Italy passes, 
Rarely he comes to these shores, wholly of harbors devoid. 


Whether he knoweth Greek, or whether in Latin he speaketh, 
Surely on this account he the more welcome will be. 


Also perchance from the mouth of the Strait and the waters Propon 
tic, 
Unto the steady South-wind, some one is spreading his sails. 12¢ 


Whosoever he is, the news he ean faithfully tell me, 
Which may become a part and an approach to the truth. 


He, I pray, may be able to tell me the triumphs of Cesar, 
Which he has heard of, and vows paid to the Latian Jove; 


And that thy sorrowful head, Germania, thou, the rebellious, 
Under the feet, at last, of the Great Captain hast laid. 


Wnoso shall tell me these things, that not to have seen will afflict me, 
forthwith unto my house welcomed as guest shall he be. 


Woeisme! Is the house of Ovidin Scythian lands now? 
And doth punishment now give me its place for a home? 13G 


Grant, ye gods, that Caesar make this not my house and my homestead, 
But decree it to be only the inn of my pain. 


INDEXES 














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ri jimh pre tie ‘ 





cane ama, 


iy 





INDEX OF FIRST LINES 


A BLIND man is a poor man, and blind 
a poor man is, 810. 

A fleet with flags arrayed, 440. 

After so long an absence, 384. 

A gentle boy, with soft and silken 
locks, 384. 

A handful of red sand, from the hot 
clime, 132. 

Ah, how short are the days ! How soon 
the night overtakes us, 351. 

Ah, Love, 53. 

Ah me! ah me! when thinking of the 
years, 837. 

Ah! thou moon that shinest, 52. 

Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me, 
127. 

A little bird in the air, 295. 

Allah gives light in darkness, 812. 

All are architects of Fate, 132. 

All are sleeping, weary heart, 45. 

All day has the battle raged, 300. 

All houses wherein men have lived and 
died, 240. 

All the old gods are dead, 289. 

Am I a king, that I should call my 
own, 447. 

A mill-stone and the human heart are 
driven ever round, 810. 

A mist was driving down the British 
Channel, 239. 

Among the many lives that I have 
known, 416. : 

An angel with a radiant face, 826. 

And King Olaf heard the cry, 280. 

And now, behold! as at the approach 
of morning, 831. 

And thou, O River of To-morrow, flow- 
ing, 418. 

And when the kings were in the field, 
— their squadrons in array, 784. 

And whither goest thou, gentle sigh, 
815. 

Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old, 
808. 


An old man in a lodge within a park, 
410, 

Arise, O righteous Lord, 682. 

As a fond mother, when the day is 
o’er, 414. 

As a pale phantom with a lamp, 458. 

A soldier of the Union mustered out, 
413. 

As one who long hath fled with panting 
breath, 458. 

As one who, walking in the twilight 
gloom, 119. 

As the birds come in the Spring, 454. 

As treasures that men seek, 773. 

As unto the bow the cord is, 168. 

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 
257. 

At Atri, in Abruzzo, a small town, 315. 

At Drontheim, Olaf the King, 291. 

At La Chaudeau,—’tis long since 
then, 829. 

At Stralsund, by the Baltic Sea, 324. 

At the foot of, the mountain height, 
818. 

A vision as of crowded city streets, 
411. 

Awake ! arise! the hour is late, 467. 

Awake, O north-wind, 477. 

A wind came up out of the sea, 253. 

A youth, light-hearted and content, 
806. 


Barabbas is my name, 520. 

Baron Castine of St. Castine, 335. 

Beautiful lily, dwelling by still rivers, 
373. 

Beautiful valley ! through whose ver: 
dant meads, 423. 

Becalmed upon the sea of Thought, 
455. 

Behold ! a giant am I, 453. 

Bell! thou soundest merrily, 804. 

Beside the ungathered rice he lay 
23. 


850 


INDEX OF FIRST LINES 





Between the dark and the daylight, 
255. 

Beware! the Israelite of old, who 
tore, 27. 

Black are the moors before Kazan, 839. 

Black shadows fall, 235. 

Blind Bartimeus at the gates, 20, 509. 

Build me straight, O worthy Master, 
120. 

Burn, O evening hearth, and waken, 
375. 

But yesterday these few and hoary 
leaves, 652. 

By his evening fire the artist, 134, 

By the shore of Gitche Gumee, 207. 


Can it be the sun descending, 175, 

Centuries old are the mountains, 395. 

Christ to the young man said: Yet one 
thing more, 137. 

Clear fount of light! my native lan 
on high, 781. 
Come from thy caverns darx and deep, 

396. 
Come, my beloved, 476. 
Come, O Death, so silent flying, 786. 
Come, old friend! sit down and listen, 
84. 
Come to me, O ye children, 254. 


Dark is the morning with mist; in the 
narrow mouth of the harbor, 450. 

Dead he lay among his books, 446, 

Dear child! how radiant on thy mo- 
ther’s knee, 75. 

Don Nuno, Count of Lara, 782. 

Dost thou see on the rampart’s height, 
445. 

Dowered with all celestial gifts, 387. 

Down from yon distant mountain 
height, 839. 

Downward through the evening twi- 
light, 146. 


Each heart has its haunted chamber, 
383. 

Even as the Blessed, at the final sum- 
mons, 833. 

Evermore a sound shall be, 393. 

Every flutter of the wing, 398. 

Eyes so tristful, eyes so tristful, 786. 


Far and wide among the nations, 197. 





Filled is Life’s goblet to the brim, 
20. 

Flooded by rain and snow, 395. 

Flow on, sweet river! like his verse, 
465. 

H'orms of saints and kings are standing, 
808. 

For thee was a house built, 812. 

Forth from the curtain of clouds, from 
the tent of purple and scarlet, 232. 

Forth upon the Gitche Gumee, 161. 

Four by the clock! and yet not day, 
461. 

Four limpid lakes, — four Naiades, 457. 

From the outskirts of the town, 384. 

From this high portal, where up- 
springs, 827. 

Full of wrath was Hiawatha, 192. 


Gaddi mi fece: il Ponte Vecchio sono, 
414, 

Garlands upon his grave, 422. 

Gentle Spring ! in sunshine clad, 816, 

Gently swaying to and fro, 392. 

Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree, 
159. 

Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of 
the mighty Omahas, 80. 

Glove of black in white hand bare, 
787. 

God sent his messenger the rain, 606. 

God sent his Singers upon earth, 137. 

Good night! good night, beloved, 52. 

Guarding the mountains around, 395, 


Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled, 
332. 

Half of my life is gone, and I have let, 
86. 

Hark, hark, 815, 

Haste and hide thee, 393. 

Hast thou seen that lordly castle, 804 

Have I dreamed ? or was it real, 237. 

Have you read in the Talmud of old 
254. 

He is dead, the beautiful youth, 378. 

He is gone to the desert land ! 838. 

Here in a little rustic hermitage, 419. 

Here lies the gentle humorist, whé 
died, 414. 

High on their turreted cliffs, 395. 

Honor be to Mudjekeewis! 142. 

How beautiful is the rain, 74. 


INDEX OF FIRST LINES 


851 





How beautiful it was, that one bright 
day, 376. 

How cold are thy baths, Apollo! 448. 

How I started up in the night, in the 
night, 811. 

How many lives, made beautiful and 
sweet, 379. 


How much of my young heart, O Spain, 


436. 

How strange it seems! These Hebrews 
in their graves, 244. 

How strange the sculptures that adorn 
these towers, 330. 

How the Titan, the defiant, 390. 

How they so softly rest, 802. 


I am poor and old and blind, 427. 

I am the God Thor, 280. 

I enter, and I see thee in the gloom, 
380. 

If perhaps these rhymes of mine should 
sound not well in strangers’ ears, 
810. 

If thou art sleeping, maiden, 65, 837. 

I have a vague remembrance, 384. 

I have read, in some old, marvellous 
tale, 6. 

I hear along our street, 825. 

I heard a brooklet gushing, 803. 

I heard a voice, that cried, 136. 

I heard the bells on Christmas Day, 
376. 

I heard the trailing garments of the 
Night, 2. 

I know a maiden fair to see, 803. 

I lay upon the headland-height, and 
listened, 374. 

I leave you, ye cold mountain chains, 
828. 

I lift mine eyes, and all the windows 
blaze, 381. 

J like that ancient Saxon phrase, which 
calls, 19. 

In Attica thy birthplace should have 
been, 409. 

In broad daylight, and at noon, 243. 

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp, 25. 

In his chamber, weak and dying, 73. 

In his lodge beside a river, 204. 

In Mather’s Magnalia Christi, 239. 

In Ocean’s wide domains, 25. 

Tn St. Luke’s Gospel we are told, 451. 


Intelligence and courtesy not always 
are combined, 810. 

In that building long and low, 248. 

In that desolate land and lone, 439. 

In the ancient town of Bruges, 67. 

In the convent of Drontheim, 300. 

In the heroic days when Ferdinand, 
302. 

In the long, sleepless watches of the 
night, 421. 

In the market-place of Bruges stands 
the belfry old and brown, 68. 

In the old churchyard of his native 
town, 454. 

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth 
the land of the Pilgrims, 211. 

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where 
across broad meadow-lands, 72. 

In the valley of the Vire, 245. 

In the village churchyard she lies, 241. 

In the workshop of Hephestus, 387. 

In those days said Hiawatha, 183. 

In those days the Evil Spirits, 185. 

Into the city of Kambalu, 318. 


‘| Into the darkness and the hush of 


night, 454. 

Into the open air John Alden, per- 
plexed and bewildered, 218. 

Into the Silent Land, 804. 

I pace the sounding sea-beach and be- 
hold, 411. 

I said unto myself, if I were dead, 413, 

I saw, as in a dream sublime, 78. 

I saw the long line of the vacant shore, 
412, 

I see amid the fields of Ayr, 449. 

I shot an arrow into the air, 86. 

Is it so far from thee, 446. 

I sleep, but my heart awaketh, 474. 

I stand again on the familiar shore, 
409. 

I stand beneath the tree, whose 
branches shade, 419. 

I stood on the bridge at midnight, 79. 

I stood upon the hills, when heaven’s 
wide arch, 11. 

Italy ! Italy ! thou who ’rt doomed to 
wear, 834. 

I thought this Pen would arise, 448. 

It is autumn ; not without, 457. 

It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded 
vanes, 416, 


B52 


INDEX OF FIRST LINES 





{ trust that somewhere and somehow, 
320. 

[t was Einar Tamberskelver, 299. 

It was fifty. years ago, 253. 

It was Sir Christopher Gardiner, 369. 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 15, 

It was the season, when through all the 
land, 307. 


Janus am I; oldest of potentates, 455. 

Joy and Temperance and Repose, 810. 

Just above yon sandy bar, 127. 

Just in the gray of the dawn, as the 
mists uprose from the meadows, 
222. 


King Christian stood by the lofty mast, 
799. 

King Ring with his queen to the ban- 
quet did fare, 788. 

King Solomon, before his palace gate, 
242. 


Labor with what zeal we will, 258. 

Lady, how can it chance — yet this we 
see, 836. 

Laugh of the mountain ! — lyre of bird 
and tree ! 782. 

Leafless are the trees; their purple 
branches, 249. 

Let him who will, by force or fraud in- 
nate, 830. 

Let nothing disturb thee, 786. 

Like two cathedral towers these stately 
pines, 453. 

Listen, my children, and you shall 
hear, 264. 

Little sweet wine of Jurangon, 830. 

Live I, so live I, 810. 

Lo! in the painted oriel of the West, 
86. 

Longing already to search in and 
round, 832. 

Lord, what am I, that, with unceasing 
care, 781. 

Loud he sang the psalm of David, 25. 

Loud sang the Spanish cavalier, 60. 

Loud the angry wind was wailing, 290. 

Loudly the sailors cheered, 296. 

Love, love, what wilt thou with this 
heart of mine ? 881. 

Lull me to sleep, ye winds, whose fitful 
sound, 413. 


Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these 
creeds and doctrines three, 810. 


Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes, 
21. 

Man-like is it to fall into sin, 810. 

Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish 
was marching steadily northward, 
228. 

Month after month passed away, and 
in Autumn the ships of the mer- 
chants, 230. 

Mounted on Kyrat strong and fleet, 
441, 

Much it behoveth, 814. 

My beloved is white and ruddy, 475. 

My soul its secret has, my life too has 
its mystery, 831. 

My undefiled is but one, 475. 


Neglected record of a mind neglected, 
469. 

Never shall souls like these, 399. 

Never stoops the soaring vulture, 199. 

Nine sisters, beautiful in form and 
face, 415. 

No more shall I see, 790. 

Northward over Drontheim, 295. 

No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks, 
423. 

Not fashioned out of gold, like Hera’s 
throne, 386. 

Nothing that is shall perish utterly, 
705. 

Nothing the greatest artist can con- 
ceive, 834. 

Nothing was heard in the room but the 
hurrying pen of the stripling, 213. 
Not without fire can any workman 

mould, 835. 
Now from all King Olaf’s farms, 283. 
Nowhere such a devious stream, 428. 
Now Time throws off his cloak again, 
815. 


O Cesar, we who are about to die, 
403. 

O curfew of the setting sun ! 
of Lynn! 378. 

O’er all the hill-tops, 811. 

O faithful, indefatigable tides, 469. 

Of Edenhall, the youthful Lord, 806. 

Of Prometheus, how undaunted, 236, 


O bells 


INDEX OF FIRST LINES 


853 





Often I think of the beautiful town, 
247. 

Oft have I seen at some cathedral door, 
380. 

Oft I remember those whom I have 
known, 463. 

O gift of God! O perfect day, 258. 

O gladsome light, 543. 

O hemlock tree ! O hemlock tree ! how 
faithful are thy branches, 807. 

Oh, give me back the days when loose 
and free, 835. 

Oh, how blest are ye whose toils are 
ended, 811. 

Oh let the soul her slumbers break, 
773. 

Oh that a Song would sing itself to me, 
419, 

Oh, the long and dreary Winter, 202. 

Olaf the King, one summer morn, 286. 

Olger the Dane and Desiderio, 243. 

© little feet! that such long years, 
258. 

O Lord! who seest, from yon starry 
height, 781. 

O lovely river of Yvette, 439. 

Once into a quiet village, 135. 

Once more, once more, Inarimé, 438. 

Once on a time, some centuries ago, 
357. 

Once the Emperor Charles of Spain, 
242. 

Once upon Iceland’s solitary strand, 
421. 

One Autumn night, in Sudbury town, 
259. 

One day, Haroun Al Raschid read, 442. 

One hundred years ago, and something 
more, 329. 

One morning, all alone, 540. 

One summer morning, when the sun 
was hot, 267. 

On King Olaf’s bridal night, 287. 

On St. Bavon’s tower, commanding, 
440, 

On sunny slope and beechen swell, 12. 

On the cross the dying Saviour, 809. 

On the gray sea-sands, 297. 

On the green little isle of Inchkenneth, 
442. 

On the Mountains of the Prairie, 139. 

On the shores of Gitche Gumee, 164. 

On the top of a mountain I stand, 60. 


O precious evenings! all too swiftly 
sped, 136. 

O River of Yesterday, with current 
swift, 418. 

O star of morning and of liberty, 381. 

O sweet illusions of Song, 382. 

O there, the old sea-captain, 252. 

O traveller, stay thy weary feet, 468. 

Our God, a Tower of Strength is He, 
607. 

Out of childhood into manhood, 149. 

Out of the bosom of the Air, 257. 

O weathercock on the village spire, 
452. 

O ye dead Poets, who are living still, 
416. 


Padre Francisco, 35. 

Pentecost, day of rejoicing, had come. 
The church of the village, 790. 

Peradventure of old, some bard in 
Ionian Islands, 462. 

Pleasant it was, when woods were 
green, 1. 

Poet! I come to touch thy lance with 
mine, 420. 


Quand les astres de Noél, 381. 
Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud 
and aloft, 282. 


Rabbi Ben Levi, on the Sabbath, read, 
273. 

Rio Verde, Rio Verde, 782. 

Rise up, my love, my fair one, 474. 

River ! that in silence windest, 19. 

River, that stealest with such silent 
pace, 410. 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Ur- 
bane, 275. ; 


Sadly as some old medieval knight, 
465. 

Safe at anchor in Drontheim bay, 294. 

Saint Augustine ! well hast thou said, 
238. 

St. Botolph’s Town ! Hither across tka 
plains, 419. 

San Miguel de Ja Tumba is a conven’ 
vast and wide, 785. 

See, the fire is sinking low, 377. 

She dwells by Great Kenhawa’s side, 
24. 


854 


INDEX OF FIRST LINES 


a 


She is a maid of artless grace, 786. 

Shepherd! who with thine amorous, 
sylvan song, 780. 

Short of stature, large of limb, 288. 

Should any one there in Rome remem- 
ber Ovid the exile, 842. 

Should you ask me, whence these 
stories, 138. 

Simon Danz has come home again, 435. 

Sing, O Song of Hiawatha, 180. 

Sir Oluf he rideth over the plain, 800. 

Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest, 467. 

Slowly, slowly up the wall, 574. 

Slowly the hour-hand of the rae 
moves round, 317. 

So from the bosom of darkness our 
days come roaring and gleaming, 
469. 

Soft through the silent air descend the 
feathery snow-flakes, 469. 

Solemnly, mournfully, 87. 

Some day, some day, 786. 

Something the heart must have to 
cherish, 812. 

Somewhat back from the village 
street, 85. 

So the strong will prevailed, and Alden 
went on his errand, 215. 

Southward with fleet of ice, 128. 

Spake full well, in language quaint and 
olden, 5. 

Speak! speak! 
14. 

Spring is coming, birds are twittering, 
forests leaf, and smiles the sun, 
789. 

Stars of the summer night, 30. 

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and 
rest, 444. 

Still through Egypt’s desert places, 
464, 

Strike the sails! King Olaf said, 298. 

Svend Dyring he rideth adown the 
glade, 367. 

Sweet as the tender fragrance that sur- 
vives, 445. 

Sweet babe! true portrait of thy fa- 
ther’s face, 816. 

Sweet chimes! that in the loneliness 
of night, 461. 

Sweet faces, that from pictured case- 
ments lean, 420. 

Sweet the memory is to me, 425. 


thou fearful guest, 


tae Gaddi built me. I am old 


Take them, O Death! and bear away, 
137. 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 3 

The Ages come and go, 685. 

The Archbishop, whom God loved in 
high degree, 817. 

The battle is fought and won, 363. 

The brooklet came from the mountain, 
385. 

The ceaseless rain is falling fast, 422. 

The course of my long life hath reached 
at last, 835. 

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary, 
19. 

The day is done, and the darkness, 
81. 

The day is ending, 82. ~ 

The doors are all wide open; at the 
gate, 410, 

The guests were loud, the ale was 
strong, 285. 

The holiest of all holidays are those, 
420. 

The lights are out, and gone are all 
the guests, 399. 

The night is come, but not too soon, 4. 

The nuns in the cloister, 52. 

The old house by the lindens, 133. 

The pages of thy book I read, 23. 

The panting City cried to the Sea, 463. 

The peasant leaves his plough afield, 
783. 

There is a quiet spirit in these woods 
1 

There is a Reaper, whose name is 
Death, 3. 

There is no flock, however watched 
and tended, 131. 

There sat one day in quiet, 801. 

The rising moon has hid the stars, 18. 

The rocky ledge runs far into the sea, 
129. 

There was a time when I was very 
small, 800. 

The rivers rush into the sea, 802. 

The sea awoke at midnight from its 
sleep, 412. 

The sea hath its pearls, 809. 

These are the Voices Three, 395. 

These words the poet heard in Parw 
dise, 465. 


INDEX OF FIRST LINES 


= 


The shades of night were falling fast, 
22. 

The Slaver in the broad lagoon, 26. 

The summer sun is sinking low, 460. 

The sun is bright, — the air is clear, 
18. 

The sun is set; and in his latest beams, 
412. 

The tide rises, the tide falls, 453. 

The twilight is sad and cloudy, 128. 

The wind is rising; it seizes and 
shakes, 528. 

The world is full of care, 636. 

The young Endymion sleeps Endymi- 
on’s sleep, 411. 

This is the Arsenal. 
ceiling, 70. 

This is the forest primeval. The mur- 
muring pines and the hemlocks, 88. 
This is the place. Stand still, my 

steed, 70. 

This song of mine, 250. 

Thora of Rimol! hide me! hide me, 
281. 

Thorberg Skafting, 
292. 

Thou ancient oak ! whose myriad leaves 
are loud, 415. 

Thou brooklet, all unknown to song, 
828. 

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the 
rain, 87. 

Though the mills of God grind slowly, 
yet they grind exceeding small, 
810. 

Thou mighty Prince of Church and 
State, 826. 

Thou Royal River, born of sun and 
shower, 417. 

Thou that from the heavens art, 811. 

Three Kings came riding from far 
away, 443, 

Three miles extended around the fields 
of the homestead, on three sides, 
787. 

Three Silences there are: the first of 
speech, 417. 

Thus for a while he stood, and mused 
by the shore of the ocean, 226. 

Thus sang the Potter at his task, 428. 

Thus, then, much care-worn, 813. 

‘T is late at night, and in the realm of 
sleep, 379. 


From floor to 


master-builder, 





855 





Tityrus, thou in the shade of a spread- 
ing beech-tree reclining, 840. 

To gallop off to town post-haste, 830. 

To noble heart Love doth for shelter 
fly, 837. 

Torrent of light and river of the air, 
411, 

Turn, turn, my wheel ! 
and round, 428. 

Tuscan, that wanderest through the 
realms of gloom, 87. 

*T was Pentecost, the Feast of Glad- 
ness, 804. 

Two angels, one of Life, and one of 
Death, 242, 

Two good friends had Hiawatha, 157. 


Turn round 


Under a spreading chestnut-tree, 17. 

Under Mount Etna he lies, 256. 

Under the walls of Monterey, 246. 

Until we meet again! That is the 
meaning, 461. 

Up soared the lark into the air, 426. 


Viswamitra, the Magician, 442. 
Vogelweid the Minnesinger, 83. 


Warm and still is the summer night, 
435. 

Welcome, my old friend, 82. 

Welcome, O Stork! that dost wing, 
840. 

We sat within the farm-house old, 130. 

What an image of peace and rest, 451. 

What is this I read in history, 459. 

What phantom is this that appears, 
450. 

What say the Bells of San Blas, 468. 

What should be said of him cannot be 
said, 836. 

What the Immortals, 392. 

When Alcuin taught the sons of Charlee 
magne, 345, 

When by night the frogs are croaking, 
kindle but a torch’s fire, 810. 

When descends on the Atlantic, 126. 

Whene’er a noble deed is wrought, 
251. 

When I compare, 467. 

When I remember them, those friend@ 
of mine, 409. 

When Mazarvan the Magician, 384. 

When the dying flame of day, 10. 


856 


INDEX OF FIRST LINES 





When the hours of Day are numbered, 
4. 

When the prime mover of my many 
sighs, 836. 

When the summer fields are mown, 385. 

When the warm sun, that brings, 8. 

When winter winds are piercing chill, 
a; 

Where are the Poets, unto whom be- 
long, 467. 

Whereunto is money good, 809. 

Whilom Love was like a fire, and 
warmth and comfort it bespoke, 
810. 

White swan of cities, slumbering in thy 
nest, 415. 

Whither, thou turbid wave, 802. 

Who love would seek, 810. 

Why dost thou wildly rush and roar, 
466. 

Will ever the dear days come back 
again, 829. 


‘Will then, Duperrier, thy sorrow be 


eternal ? 826. 

With favoring winds, o’er sunlit seas, 
446. 

With snow-white veil and garments as 
of flame, 380. 

With what a glory comes and goes the 
year, 9. 

Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, 134. 

Worn with speed is my good steed, 6v. 


Ye sentinels of sleep, 396. 

Yes, the moment shall decide, 397. 

Yes, the Year is growing old, 7. 

Yet not in vain, O River of Yesterday, 
418. 

Ye voices, that arose, 13. 

You shall hear how Hiawatha, 153. 

You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, 
171, 188. 

You were not at the play to-night, Don 
Carlos, 27. 





[INDEX ORC ELEEES 


The titles of major works and of general divisions are set in SMALL CAPITALS 


Abbot Joachim, The, 528, 

Aftermath, 385. 

Afternoon in February, 82. 

Allah, 812. 

Amalfi, 425. 

Ancient Spanish Ballads, 782. 

Angel and the Child, The, 826. 

Annie of Tharaw, 808. 

April Day, An, 8. 

Arrow and the Song, The, 86. 

Arsenal at Springfield, The, 70. 

Artist, The, 834. 

At La Chaudeau, 829. 

Auf Wiedersehen, 461. 

Autumn: ‘Thou comest, 
heralded by the rain,’ 87. 

Autumn: ‘ With what a glory comes 
and goes the year,’ 9. 

Autumn within, 457. 

Avon, To the, 465. 

Azrael, 342. 


Autumn, 


Ballad of Carmilhan, The, 324. 

Ballad of the French Fleet, A, 440. 

BALLADS AND OTHER PorEms, 14. 

Baron of St. Castine, The, 335, 

Barréges, 828. 

Bayard Taylor, 446. 

Beatrice, 832. 

Becalmed, 455. 

Beleaguered City, The, 6. 

BELFRY OF BruaEs AND OTHER POEMS, 
THE, 67. 

Belfry of Bruges, The, 68. 

Belisarius, 427. 

Bell of Atri, The, 315. 

Bells of Lynn, The, 378. 

Bells of San Blas, The, 468. 

Beowulf’s Expedition to Heort, 813. 

Beware, 803. 

Bird and the Ship, The, 802. 


Birds of Killingworth, The, 307. 

BirDs of Passage, 235. 

Black Knight, The, 804. 

Blessed are the Dead, 811. 

Blind Bartimeus, 20, 

BuinD Gir~ oF CasTéL-CumLLi, THR, 
818. 

Book oF Sonnets, A, 409. 

Boston, 419. 

Boy and the Brook, The, 839. 

Bridge, The, 79. 

Bridge of Cloud, The, 375. 

Broken Oar, The, 421. 

Brook, The, 782. 

Brook and the Wave, The, 385. 

Brooklet, To my, 828. 

BUILDING OF THE SHIP, THE, 120, 

Builders, The, 132. 

Burial of the Minnisink, 12. 

Burial of the Poet, The, 454. 


Cadenabbia, 423. 

Canzone, 837. 

Carillon, 67. 

Castle-Builder, The, 384. 
Castle by the Sea, The, 804. 
Castles in Spain, 436. 
Catawba Wine, 250. 

Celestial Pilot, The, 831. 
Challenge, The, 384. 
Chamber over the Gate, The, 446, 
Changed, 384. 

Channing, To William E., 23. 
Charlemagne, 343. 

Charles Sumner, 422. 
Chaucer, 410. 

Chaudeau, At La, 829. 

Child Asleep, The, 816. 
Child, To a, 75. 

Childhood, 800. 

Children, 254. 


858 





CHILDREN OF THE LorpD’s Surrer, THE, 
790. 

Children’s Crusade, The, 459. 

Children’s Hour, The, 255. 

Chimes, 461. 

Christmas Bells, 376. 

Christmas Carol, 825. 

Curistus: A Mystery, 470. 

Chrysaor, 127. 

City and the Sea, The, 463. 

Cobbler of Hagenau, The, 320. 

Come, O Death, so silent flying, 786. 

Consolation, 826. 

CoPpLAS DE MANRIQUE, 773. 

CourtsHie oF Mines STANDISH, THE, 
211, 

Cross of Snow, The, 421. 

Cumberland, The, 257. 

Curfew, 87. 


Danish Song-Book, To an Old, 82. 
Dunte: ‘Tuscan, that wanderest 
through the realms of gloom,’ 87. 
Dante: ‘ What should be said of him 
cannot be said,’ 836. 

Daybreak, 253. 

Day is Done, The, 81. 

Daylight and Moonlight, 243. 

Day of Sunshine, A, 258. 

Dead, The, 802. 

Death of Archbishop Turpin, 817. 

Decoration Day, 467. 

Dedication (Michael Angelo), 705. 

Dedication (The Seaside and the Fire- 
side), 119. 

Delia, 445. 

Descent of the Muses, The, 415. 

Discoverer of the North Cape, The, 
252. 

Divina Commedia, 380. 

Divine Tracepy, THE, 471. 

Drinking Song, 84. 

Driving Cloud, To the, 80. 

Dutch Picture, A, 435. 


EARLIER Poems, 7. 

Elected Knight, The, 799. 
Elegiac, 450. 

Elegiac Verse, 462. 

Eliot’s Oak, 415. 

Elizabeth, 351. 

Emma and Eginhard, 345. 
Emperor’s Bird’s-Nest, The, 242. 


INDEX OF. TITLES 


(22S ee 


Emperor’s Glove, The, 440. 

Enceladus, 256. 

Endymion, 18. 

Epimetheus, or the Poet’s 
thought, 237. 

EVANGELINE: A TALE OF ACADIE, 88. 

Evening Star, The, 86. 

Excelsior, 22. 

Eyes so tristful, eyes so tristful, 786. 


Aften 


Falcon of Ser Federigo, The, 267. 
Fata Morgana, 382. 

Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz, 253. 
Fire, 835. 

Fire of Driftwood, The, 130. 
FLOWER-DE-LUCE, 373. 

Flowers, 5. 

Footsteps of Angels, 4. 
Forsaken, 812. 

Four by the Clock, 461. 

Four Lakes of Madison, The, 457. 
Tour Princesses at Wilna, The, 420. 
Fragment, A, 467. 

FRAGMENTS, 469. 

Friar Lubin, 830. 

Frithiof’s Farewell, 790. 
Frithiof’s Homestead, 787. 
Frithiof’s Temptation, 789. 
From my Arm-Chair, 447. 

From the Cancioneros, 786. 
Fugitive, The, 838. 


Galaxy, The, 411. 

Gaspar Becerra, 134. 

Giles Corey of the Salem Farms, 650. 

Giotto’s Tower, 379. 

Gleam of Sunshine, A, 70. 

Glove of Black in White Hand Bare, 
787. 

Goblet of Life, The, 20. 

God’s-Acre, 19. 

GoLDEN LEGEND, THE, 531. 

Golden Milestone, The, 249. 

Good Part that shall not be takeg 
away, The, 24. 

Good Shepherd, The, 781. 

Grave, The, 812. 


HANGING OF THE CRANE, THE, 399, 
Happiest Land, The, 801. 

Haroun Al Raschid, 442. 

Harvest Moon, The, 416. 
Haunted Chamber, The, 383. 


INDEX 


OF TITLES 


85a 





Haunted Houses, 240. 

Hawthorne, 376. 

Helen of Tyre, 450. 

Hemlock Tree, 807. 

Hermes Trismegistus, 464. 

Herons of Elmwood, The, 435. 

Holidays, 420. f 

Hymn for my Brother’s Ordination, 
137. 

Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Beth- 
lehem, 10. 

Hymn to the Night, 2. 


Image of God, The, 781. 
Inscription on the Shanklin Fountain, 
468. 
In the Churchyard at Cambridge, 241. 
In the Churchyard at Tarrytown, 414. 
In THE Harpor, 455. 
Iron Pen, The, 448. 
Italy, To, 834. 
_It is not always May, 18. 


Jewish Cemetery at Newport, The, 244. 
John Endicott, 610. 

Jupas Maccanmus, 686. 

Jugurtha, 448, 


Kambalu, 318. 

Keats, 411. 

KeraAmos, 428. 

Killed at the Ford, 378. 

King Christian, 799. 

King Robert of Sicily, 275. 

King Trisanku, 442. 

King Witlaf’s Drinking-Horn, 134. 


Ladder of St. Augustine, The, 238. 
Lady Wentworth, 329. 

Leap of Roushan Beg, The, 441. 
Legend Beautiful, The, 332. 
Legend of the Cross-Bill, The, 809. 
Legend of Rabbi Ben Levi, The, 273. 
L’Envoi (Ultima Thule), 454. 
L’Envoi (Voices of the Night), 13. 
Lighthouse, The, 129. 

Light of Stars, The, 4. 

Loss and Gain, 467. 

Luck of Edenhall, The, 806. 


Mad River, 466. 
Maiden and Weathercock, 452. 
Maidenhood, 21. 


Martin Luther, 607. 

MASQUE OF PANDORA, THE, 386. 
Meeting, The, 383. 

Memories, 463. 

Mezzo Cammin, 86. 

MIcHAEL ANGELO: A FRAGMENT, 705. 
Midnight Mass for the Dying Year, 7. 
Milton, 411. 

Monk of Casal-Maggiore, The, 357, 
Monte Cassino, 423. 

Moods, 419. 

Moonlight, 458. 

Morituri Salutamus, 403. 

Mother’s Ghost, The, 367. 

My Books, 465. 

My Cathedral, 453. 

My Lost Youth, 247. 

My Secret, 831. 


Nameless Grave, A, 413. 
Native Land, The, 781. 


| Nature, 414. 
Nature of Love, The, 837, 


Neglected Record of a Mind Neglected, 
469, 

New ENGLAND TRAGEDIES, THE, 610. 

Night, 454. 

Noél, 381. 

Norman Baron, The, 73. 

Nuremberg, 72. 


Occultation of Orion, The, 78. 

O Faithful, Indefatigable Tides, 469. 
Old Age, 835. 

Old Bridge at Florence, The, 414. 
Old Clock on the Stairs, The, 85. 
Old St. David’s at Radnor, 451. 
Oliver Basselin, 245. 

Open Window, The, 133. 

Ovid in Exile, 842. 


Palingenesis, 374. 

Parker Cleaveland, 416. 

PASSAGES FROM F'RITHIOF’s SAGA, 787 
Paul Revere’s Ride, 264. 

Pegasus in Pound, 135. 

Phantom Ship, The, 239. 

Poems ON SLAVERY, 23. 

Poet and his Songs, The, 454. 
Poetic Aphorisms, 809. 

Poets, The, 416, 

Poet’s Calendar, The, 455. 

Ponte Vecchio di Firenze, Il, 414. 


860 





Possibilities, 467. 

Prelude (Voices of the Night), 1. 

President Garfield, 465. 

Prometheus, or the Poet’s Fore- 
thought, 236. 

Psalm of Life, A, 3. 


Quadroon Girl, The, 26. 
Quiet Life, A, 830. 


Rain in Summer, 74. 

Rainy Day, The, 19. 

Reaper and the Flowers, The, 3. 

Remorse, 811. 

Resignation, 131. 

Return of Spring, The, 815. 

Revenge of Rain-in-the-Face, The, 439. 

Rhyme of Sir Christopher, The, 369. 

River Charles, To the, 19. 

River Rhone, To the, 417. 

River Yvette, To the, 439. 

Robert Burns, 449. 

Rondel: ‘ Love, love, what wilt thou 
with this heart of mine?’ 831. 

Ropewalk, The, 248. 


‘Saga or Kine Oar, Tue, 280. 

St. John, 685. 

St. John’s, Cambridge, 419. 

Sandalphon, 254. 

Sand of the Desert in an Hour-Glass, 
132. 

San Miguel, the Convent, 785. 

Santa Filomena, 251. 

Santa Teresa’s Book-Mark, 786. 

Scanderbeg, 363. 

Sea hath its Pearls, The, 809. 

SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE, THE, 119. 

Seaweed, 126. 

Secret of the Sea, The, 127. 

Sermon of St. Francis, The, 426. 

Seven Sonnets and a Canzone, 834. 

Shadow, A, 413. 

Shakespeare, 411. 

Siege of Kazan, The, 839. 

Sifting of Peter, The, 451. 

Silent Love, 810. 

Singers, The, 137. 

Sir Humphrey Gilbert, 128. 

Skeleton in Armor, The, 14, 

Slave in the Dismal Swamp, The, 25. 

Slave’s Dream, The, 23. 

Slave Singing at Midnight, The, 25. 


INDEX OF TITLES 


Sledge-Ride on the Ice, A, 788. 
Sleep, 413. 
Snow-F lakes, 257. 
So from the Bosom of Darkness, 469 
Soft through the Silent Air, 469. 
Some Day, Some Day, 786. 
Something left Undone, 258. 
Song: And whither goest thou, gentle 
sigh, 815. 
Song: Hark, hark ! 815. 
Song: If thou art sleeping, maiden, 
837. 
Song: She is a maid of artless grace, 
786. 
Song: Stay, stay at home, my heart, 
444, 
Sone oF HIAWATHA, THE, 138. 
Song of the Bell, 804. 
Song of the Silent Land, 806. 
Songo River, 428. 
SONNETS. 
Artist, The, 834. 
Autumn, 87. 
Boston, 418. 
Broken Oar, The, 421. 
Brook, The, 782. 
Burial of the Poet, The, 454. 
Chaucer, 410. 
Chimes, 461. 
Cross of Snow, The, 421. 
Dante, 87. 
Dante, 836. 
Dedication to Michael Angelo, 705. 
Descent of the Muses, The, 415. 
Divina Commedia, 380. 
Eliot’s Oak, 415. 
Evening Star, The, 86. 
Fire, 835. 
Four Princesses at Wilna, The, 420. 
Galaxy, The, 411. 
Giotto’s Tower, 379. 
Good Shepherd, The, 780. 
Harvest Moon, The, 416. 
Holidays, 420. 
How strange the sculptures that 
adorn these towers, 380. 
I enter, and I see thee in the gloom 
380. 
I lift mine eyes, and all the windows 
blaze, 381. 
Image of God, The, 78}. 
In the Churchyard at Tarrytown, 
414. 





INDEX OF TITLES 


Italy, To, 834. 

Keats, 411. 

Memories, 463. 

Mezzo Cammin, 86, 

Milton, 411. 

Moods, 419. 

Mrs. Kemble’s Readings from Shake- 
speare, On, 136. 

My Books, 465. 

My Cathedral, 423. 

My Secret, 831. 

Nameless Grave, A, 413. 

Native Land, The, 781. 

Nature, 414. 

Night, 454. 

Oft have I seen at some Cathedral 
Door, 380. 

Old Age, 835. 

Old Bridge at Florence, The, 414. 

O Star of Morning and of Liberty! 
381. 

Parker Cleaveland, 416. 

~ Poets, The, 416. 

Ponte Vecchio di Firenza, Il, 414. 

Possibilities, 467. 

President Garfield, 465. 

Quiet Life, A, 830. 

Return of Spring, The, 815. 

River Rhone, To the, 417. 

St. John’s, Cambridge, 419. 

Shadow, A, 413. 

Shakespeare, 411. 

Sleep, 413. 

Sound of the Sea, The, 412. 

Summer Day by the Sea, A, 412. 

Three Friends of Mine, 409. 

Three Silences of Molinos, The, 
417. 

Tides, The, 412. 

To-morrow (Manaiia), 379. 

To-morrow, 781. 

Two Rivers, The, 417. 

Venice, 415. 

Victor and Vanquished, 458. 

Vittoria Colonna, To, 836. 

Wapentake, 420. 

Will ever the dear Days come back 
again, 829. 

With Snow-white Veil and Garments 
as of Flame, 380. 

Woodstock Park, 419, 

Youth and Age, 8365. 





861 











Soul’s Complaint against the Body, 
The, 814. 

Sound of the Sea, The, 412, 

SPANISH STUDENT, THE, 28. 

Spirit of Poetry, The, 11. 

Spring, 816, 

Statue over the Cathedral Door, The, 
808. 

Stork, To the, 840. 

Summer Day by the Sea, A, 412 

Sundown, 460. 

Sunrise on the Hills, 11. 

Suspiria, 137. 

Symbolum Apostolorum, 528. 


TALES OF A WAYSIDE Inn, 259. 

Tegnér’s Drapa, 136. 

Terrace of the Aigalades, On the, 
827. 

Terrestrial Paradise, The, 832. 

Three Friends of Mine, 409. 

Three Kings, The, 443. 

Three Silences of Molinos, The, 417. 

Tide Rises, the Tide Falls, The, 453. 

Tides, The, 412. 

To a Child, 75. 

To an Old Danish Song-Book, 82. 

To Cardinal Richelieu, 826. 

To Italy, 834. 

To-morrow, 379. 

To-morrow (Manajiia), 781. 

To my Brooklet, 828. 

Torquemada, 302. 

To the Avon, 465. 

To the Driving Cloud, 80. 

To the River Charles, 19. 

To the River Rhone, 417. 

To the River Yvette, 439. 

To the Stork, 840. 

To William E. Channing, 23. 

To Vittoria Colonna, 836. 

TRANSLATIONS, 773. 

Travels by the Fireside, 422. 

Twilight, 128. 

Two Angels, The, 242. 

Two Locks of Hair, The, 807. 

Two Rivers, The, 417. 


ULTIMA THULE, 446. 


Venice, 415. 
Victor and Vanquished, 458. 


862 


INDEX OF TITLES 





Victor Galbraith, 246. 

Vida de San Millan, 784. 
Village Blacksmith, The, 17. 
Virgil’s First Eclogue, 840. 
Vittoria Colonna, 438. ° 
Vittoria Colonna, To, 836. 
VolcEs OF THE Ni@uT, 1. 
Vox Populi, 384. 


Walter von der Vogelweid, 83. 
Wanderer’s Night-Songs, 811. 
Wapentake, 420. 

Warden of the Cinque Ports, The, 239. 
Warning, The, 27. 

Wave, The, 802. 


Weariness, 258. 

White Czar, The, 445. 

Whither, 893. 

Will ever the dear Days come back 
again, 829. 

Windmill, The, 453. 

Wind over the Chimney, The, 377. 

Wine of Jurancon,, The, 830. 

Witnesses, The, 25. 


| Woods in Winter, 9. 


Woodstock Park, 419. 
Wraith in the Mist, A, 442. 
Wreck of the Hesperus, The, 15. 


Youth and Age, 836. 

















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